


Small Moments of Great Import

by apolla



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butterfly Effect, Gen, King Gendry, Ned Stark Lives, Prince Gendry, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolla/pseuds/apolla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tobho Mott's appendix changed the course of history...</p><p>Gendry Waters is tasked with taking a commission to the Red Keep, kicking off a chain of events which changes everything, for better or worse or just plain different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Appendix That Changed The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrHolland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHolland/gifts).



_It is often difficult to pinpoint a single cause or catalyst for war. So many things contribute to such an event that any Declaration of War is a culmination of moments and not a beginning itself._

_Of all the hundreds of books written about The War of Kings since its eruption across our great land, none have ever gone far back enough to understand that really, the War began because of an appendix._

_It is not written in the books but it is known: The War of the Kings was begun by Tobho Mott's appendix._

*

_King's Landing, 297AC._

The smallfolk of the capital city were used to noise and stink but the moaning and groaning issuing from the smithy of Tobho Mott was too much even for them. It had been going on for days and nights now, his low-pitched moans and moos timed almost perfectly to the clocks.

His wife had begged him to see the local healer, but Mott had snapped back that the man was barely a step up from a butcher.

'Once I've finished this work, I'll be able to afford a visit to the maester,' he told her through gritted teeth.

She rolled her eyes and called for his apprentice to assist him.

So for three more days and two more nights, the poor folk of the Street of Steel were kept awake by Mott's moans as he strove to complete a new breastplate for Jamie Lannister of the Kingsguard, as commissioned by his sister Queen Cersei.

There was no question of delivering it late. Late meant not receiving his full commission, late meant a black spot on his reputation – and that woman would let _everyone_ know of his failure – and late meant that a piece which should make his name the brightest in his profession would only prove ignominious.

By the second night he was in so much pain that his apprentice took over the bulk of the work, under his direction. The next morning the work was completed, almost two thirds of it the work of the boy, in truth.

Mott could not move, curled up on the apprentice boy's cot. 'You'll have to deliver it, boy.'

The apprentice blinked. 'Me, master? I can't go up to the Red Keep-'

'You have to. I wouldn't ask if-' Mott's eyes closed tightly as another pain shot through him. 'I'm sorry, lad but you have to. Our future depends on it.'

The apprentice gave the breastplate one final polish, so that the gold lion rampant shone in the early morning sun. He packaged it up and with one last check that his master would survive until his return, took the walk through the city to the castle.

It was still early but already stalls and shops were plying their trade. He looked longingly at plump fresh fruits and curiously at luxuries from Essos, but kept up a swift pace: there was no place for dreams in his world.

At the castle he was shown through the tradesman's entrance into a small antechamber to await the master armorer. He paced nervously, feeling more out of place than ever in his life – even those first awkward days at the forge.

His attention was caught by two duelling knights in the yard and, without thinking, he wandered first to the doorway and then to the space just outside, and then to get a better view of the two Whitecloaks training.

One was tall, athletic and clearly the superior swordsman. His face was covered by his helm but it was almost certainly Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer in person.

'You, boy!'

He froze guiltily as an old man, broad of shoulder and white of hair, strode over to him with great purpose. His blue cloak was finer than anything the apprentice boy had ever seen, let alone owned, and was fastened with a bronze clip fashioned into a hand circled by a crown.

'Your name!' he barked.

'Ge- Gendry Waters, m'lord.'

'Is that so?' The old man's belligerence was already fading into curiosity. 'Waters? A bastard, eh?'

Gendry looked down at his feet and nodded. He was at least a foot taller than the old man but felt tiny under his gaze, which did not falter.

'Why are you here?' the lord asked.

Gendry stammered out his purpose and held the bag out for inspection. His knees had turned soft and his hands trembled. All he'd wanted to do was deliver the master's work and go.

'I didn't mean to... intrude. I just- I was curious-'

'I don't care about that. Come with me.'

He followed the lord across the yard and in his fear failed to see that the duel was over and the tall knight was staring after him, eyes narrow through his helm.

 

*

 

Gendry was shaking by the time they reached what turned out to be the personal solar of the Hand of the King.

'I am Jon Arryn,' the old man said, settling down into a large leather chair by the window. 'Hand of the King. Do sit.'

Gendry hesitated but did obey.

'You must be quite worried,' Lord Arryn said, tone friendly but brows furrowed. 'I apologise if I seemed... intimidating. I must ask you, lad... who was your mother?'

Gendry blinked. It had been years and yet the loss of his beautiful, fragile, golden-haired mother caused great pain in his broad chest, mostly because he could  _not_ remember. 'She was... I don't really remember, my lord... she had hair the colour of the sun and... I don't remember. Master Mott said she was a whore but...'

'Did you know that the King fostered with me for some time?'

'No, m'lord.' Gendry was confused: why would he know that?

'So you see, I remember him very well at the same age you are now.'

It felt like a rock the size of a plate had settled in the bottom of Gendry's stomach.

'How did you come to apprentice with Tobho Mott?'

'I don't know m'lord. I mean, he once told me that a lord paid him to take me on...'

'That is interesting. Gendry, you may be able to do me a very great service.'

'M'lord?'

'Go back to your master. Do not tell anyone we have spoken. I may call on you very soon but... tell no one at this time. And Gendry, do  _not_ come back to the castle except at my invitation. Under no circumstances.'

'Yes, m'lord.'

Gendry got up to leave but the Hand stopped him. He opened a hidden door. 'Not that way, my lad, you'll be seen. Follow the ladder down. At the mosaic, take the first tunnel to your left. You'll emerge by the docks, eventually.'

'How will I see, m'lord?'

'You won't, I'm afraid.

The climb down was easy; the walk along the long, dank, dark tunnel was not. Several times he tripped over stones and his own feet but finally he emerged at what looked like a sewer. Feeling as though his whole world had been turned upside down, Gendry wandered aimlessly before remembering that Master Mott had sent him on an errand which he had failed to complete.

Back at the workshop, Mott's appendix was giving him some respite and the man himself was in good humour.

'Excellent news, Gendry! The Queen sent a messenger with payment and to praise me for the fine work! She says it suits Ser Jaime very well!'

'I'm glad, Master.' Gendry released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. 'You deserve the praise.'

'In truth, you did much of the work. You're ready now, for-' Mott groaned as he sat up. 'Valyrian steel.'

'Master, I-'

'That bull's-head helm is fine work. Fine work. You still have a great deal to learn, m'boy but learn you will.'

'Yes, Master. I'm... glad you think well of my work.'

'I have one more errand for you. Fetch the maester.' Mott handed him several gold coins and finally, the Street of Steel got itself a good night's rest.

 

*


	2. A Journey

Chapter Two

Gendry's name-day was usually marked by nothing more impressive than an afternoon away from the hot forge. In good years, Tobho bought him a small sweet confection to take away for his afternoon of freedom, often spent roaming through the Kingswood.

This year, flush with the wealth from Lannister's breastplate and the commissions that followed, Mott lavished – at least in comparison to precedent – gifts upon Gendry: several lemon cakes, a new leather jerkin and most astonishingly of all, a large war hammer.

'Master Mott-' Gendry just stared at the thick handle and the brutal, spiked iron head of the hammer, not daring to touch.

'It's very old,' Mott interrupted before Gendry could politely reject the gift. 'It was made by my father many years ago for the son of a great lord. He never took delivery, but seeing you in the forge I know it will be of more use to you than a sword.'

'But-' Gendry lifted the hammer. It was heavier even than it looked, but comfortable in his hands. His forge-strengthened shoulders did not protest as he raised it, although he dared not swing it in a confined space. 'I have no need for such a weapon.'

'Yes Gendry, you do. It was a mistake, a very great mistake, that I sent you to the Castle. I blame the pain...'

Gendry set his blue eyes upon the man who had raised him and taught him everything he knew. 'I don't understand any of this!'

'You're a bright lad, Gendry. You _do_ understand even if you don't want to. Think, lad. Think about it all. They'll be coming for you soon and you must be prepared. I should never have- no matter now. It is done.' Mott slumped into a chair by the fire and his head sank into his hands.

Gendry closed his eyes. He thought of Lord Arryn and how he had reacted upon seeing him stood in the yard; of the questions which came from nowhere; Mott's response and the warhammer.

'I'm King Robert's son.'

'Yes. His eldest son no less, which makes you dangerous to some folk who would like to see you out of the way. You must... you must know so that you can defend yourself.'

'But I'm a bastard-'

'You're still dangerous! You look like Robert come again to those who can remember far back enough. For that alone you would find supporters, but you're thoughtful, clever, kind. If things were to change, you might find yourself... considered.'

'Considered? What for?'

'What do you think?' Mott snapped, his patience with Gendry's ingenuous questions. 'There are people that would seek to make you  _king_ , idiot boy!'

It was the closest Gendry ever came to fainting, even compared to hours-long stints over the fires. 'The King has three true-born children.'

Mott shrugged. 'And a lot can happen to three true-born children. Just... keep the damned hammer. Stay close to home, at least for awhile. I've a bad feeling.'

*

For two moons, Gendry obeyed his master's command. He remained within the smithy almost constantly and when he did leave it was only to visit the greengrocer at the corner. Mott made all the deliveries that couldn't be done by errand boys.

Gendry took the time to work harder than ever before and to muse upon the reality of his situation. He didn't want to think it true for a moment but there was no other rational explanation. He'd been delivered to Mott very late one night by a man in  _“lordly attire who paid double the apprentice fee. I didn't want an apprentice then, but the money persuaded me.”_

For two moons, he did nothing but work and think, and then early one morning Lord Arryn appeared unannounced at Mott's blacksmith shop. He was flanked by half a dozen soldiers and had the look of one who had slept as ill and thought as intensely as Gendry himself.

He made the appropriate greetings to Mott, who made himself immediately scarce.

Arryn wasted no further time on pleasantries: 'Gendry, I must as you to come with me now.'

Gendry's stubborn cynicism flared and he crossed his arms over his chest. 'Why?'

'Because the future safety of the realm demands it. You must know what I mean-'

'Yes.'

'You don't see it all, however. I need you, Gendry. The _realm_ needs you. Quickly, pack your things and-'

'Hey! There's a difference between coming with you and leaving with you!'

Arryn practically laughed in his face, though more desperate than unkind. 'If my plan succeeds, you will not return here. If my plan fails, you must leave the city.'

Gendry stopped to take a long, deep breath.

'Many will die if we do not take action, boy. Do you want those lives on your conscience?'

'No... but... what of Master Mott? He needs me-'

'The _realm_ needs you! Gods, you are as stubborn as he was once. Must you know everything now? We have no time! Gather your belongings. Or don't, you shan't need most of whatever you have.'

'I haven't much anyway.' Gendry sighed, knowing that he would go with Arryn. He grabbed his jacket and his hammer but nothing else. 'Where are we going?'

'To see your father.'

A closed carriage was waiting. Gendry hated how it rattled along the twisting, narrow cobbled lanes of the city. As they approached the huge bronze gates of the Red Keep, Arryn instructed his driver to continue on without entering and to make haste out of the city.

'What's wrong?' Gendry asked.

Arryn was ashen-faced and the brows which had been furrowed earlier were now almost knit into one. 'Did you see the guards at the gates?'

'Yes. They're always there.'

'Not these guards. They were Lannister men, not gold-cloaks. I must get you out of the city.'

The carriage clattered through King's Landing and did not slow until through the city gates and some distance along the Kingsroad. During the pause to allow the horses to rest, Arryn wrote a hurried letter and sent it off with his own personal raven.

'Will you tell me what is going on now, m'lord?' Gendry asked. He had hated the journey with this strange old man and his bad breath, and what little patience he had possessed was gone. There were too many questions rolling around in his head to be bothering with courtesies.

'I had planned to present you to the King...' Arryn said, distracted with writing a second letter. '…I can only surmise that someone else noticed you when you came to the Red Keep before. I had not- the guards were waiting for us, waiting for you.'

'Why?'

Arryn blinked and stared at him. 'My boy, you really must learn quickly, for your life depends on it. The Lannisters are the Queen's family. Had I been able to present you to the King-' He stopped.

'What?'

'It matters not. I must return to King's Landing quickly. There is so much to be done.' Arryn signed and sealed the letter. 'I am sending you to the one place I believe you will be safe. My man will take you as far as the Crossroads. There you should buy yourself a horse – a good one – and make your way North. Take this letter as my proof and my recommendation.'

'North?'

Arryn handed Gendry a large purse of gold and silver coins, more money than the apprentice boy had seen in all his life. 'Yes. To Winterfell.'

*

The journey to the Crossroads passed in a confused stop-start-stop-rest-start-again blur. The purse weighed heavily in Gendry's hands and he barely noticed the landscapes they passed swiftly through even when he was awake. He and the driver paused to rest and eat only when necessary, more for the benefit of the horses than themselves. The driver was not a man inclined to make conversation even if Gendry had wanted it, which he did not.

At the Crossroads Inn, Gendry found himself faced with another problem: he had no idea of the price of a good horse, nor even what a good horse looked like. Arryn's taciturn man was an honourable sort and did not leave him until satisfied that his passenger was secure for the rest of his journey.

'Please,' Gendry said as the man went to leave. 'Please give Lord Arryn my thanks.'

The driver nodded. 'Ar.'

Gendry watched the carriage turn and return to King's Landing. Suddenly feeling very alone, he turned to his new horse. 'Well, I hope you know where you're going, because I don't.'

*

Mott had taught Gendry a few basics of horse-riding as a boy, but nothing close to decent preparation for a long-distance ride such as the one he now undertook. Thoughts of soldiers and guards plagued him so fiercely that he took to keeping off the road where he could, although his lack of skill in the saddle meant this was not too often.

He slept with one eye open and a hand always on his hammer or the sword he'd picked up as a last-minute decision before leaving Mott's smith shop. He rode north without care for the inclement weather, although the cold began to bite as he moved closer to his destination.

He'd no idea what the letter from Arryn to “STARK” contained and his sense of honour and decency prevented his curiosity from getting the better of him to read it. He turned it over and over in his hands when at rest, wondering what decisions for his future it held.

Once his backside was used to riding and once the horse was used to him, Gendry made relatively good time. He was broken by the time he caught his first glimpse of Winterfell's high stone walls and towers rising out of an early morning northern fog.

The falcon seal on the less-than-crisp letter gained Gendry immediate access through the gates into the vast open courtyard. His left knee gave way as he dismounted and he stumbled in the mud. Horridly aware that the people of Winterfell were staring curiously at him, he straightened himself up and hoped he might be able to make himself presentable before meeting the Lord of Winterfell.

'You, lad!'

No such luck. It was obvious from the power in his voice and the long, purposeful stride that the man who halloed him was the man himself, swathed in thick furs and carrying a huge Valyrian steel great sword at his side. Guards aside, he was flanked by two boys a little younger than Gendry himself, both in similar coats but with much smaller, less impressive swords. While they stared curiously at him, the Lord himself just gazed, mouth slightly open, as if he was thinking of something or someone far, far away.

'M'lord-'

'I thought I'd seen a ghost, but here you stand and speak. Who are you and what brings you to Winterfell?'

Gendry bowed and handed Lord Stark the letter. His host read it there and then, brows furrowed just as Arryn's had been.

'You had better come with me... Gendry.'

'Yes, m'lord.'

Lord Stark's eyebrow then raised for a moment. When he spoke, it was softly: 'If Jon Arryn speaks the truth, I am not your lord... We have work to do now but I will come back to you soon, young man.' He cleared his throat. 'Jory, take Gendry to Ser Rodrik. He is our guest and I would have his needs seen to.'

*

Gendry could not fault his host's hospitality. Ser Rodrik, the castellan, had put him under the care of several servants who hustled him into a guest room deep in the heart of the castle. A hot bath had been provided almost immediately, along with plentiful food, fresh clothes (a little too small but one could hardly be choosy in such a situation) and even a visit from the castle maester.

The thoughtful man with the chain had examined Gendry and ordered his left knee be strapped up. Like Lord Stark, he had stared at Gendry's face for some time. They were hardly the first in his life to stare at his face, apparently so much like his father's, but at least now he had some knowledge of the cause. Once the maester departed, Gendry fell into a deep sleep.

Lord Stark came to him some hours later. He was as grim-faced as before but Gendry recognised him as a fellow man-of-few-words and fewer open emotions. He paced a few times around the room as Gendry lay on the bed, leg immobilised.

'I received Arryn's raven some time ago. I could hardly make sense of it but now... the seed is strong, he said. I truly thought for a moment that I was staring at my friend as he was twenty years ago... but now... I see more of the boy Renly perhaps. Not that I have seen him for many years.'

'M'lord-'

'Arryn has asked me to take you in. As far as anyone is concerned you are here to apprentice with my smith, Mikken. You will work in the forge during the day and come to me for instruction after dinner each evening.'

'Instruction?'

'In the ways of kings, and lords and the matters of castles and the politics of the highborn. I must make a ki- lord of you. Sleep now. I will not ask you to meet the residents of Winterfell until you are fully rested. Sleep now, Gendry. Sleep well.'

Gendry could feel that Lord Stark was a good man from tip to toe. He was gentle underneath the gruffness of the North. Gendry fell asleep again almost immediately, at ease for the first time since walking into the Red Keep with Jaime Lannister's breastplate.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind wishes so far! I won't be posting daily but thought it might be an idea to get a bit more posted to begin with.


	3. At Winterfell

Gendry met the residents of Winterfell the next morning, as promised. He met Lord Stark's eldest sons at breakfast in the Great Hall, struck as he was by how the lordlings were willing to eat with (or at least near) the smallfolk and those who served.

Robb Stark was one of the boys he'd seen the day before, russett hair curling into his clear blue eyes. He greeted Gendry warmly, but with all the authority of a boy raised to inherit such a place as Winterfell one day.

Flanking him were two boys, both handsome and dark. But where one regarded him with friendly curiosity, the other smirked, apparently seeing a chance for new mischief.

'We'll show you Winterfell,' Robb said through a mouthful of food. 'Everything of importance.'

'And the important bits outside Winterfell.' The smirking one, Theon Greyjoy, could hardly conceal his glee. 'A good excuse, I think.'

'You don't need an excuse to visit Ros,' replied the third boy in a soft, semi-serious voice. Gendry could tell just by the way he said the name that he was referring to a whore.

'And you do,' Theon shot back. 'When are you going to just do it, Snow?'

'You know my thoughts on the subject-'

'The bastard boy won't risk bringing another bastard into the world,' Theon mocked.

Snow flushed a deep red. Gendry's temper flared but he kept it under regulation. It would not do to get into a fight with Lord Stark's ward on his first morning.

'Leave it, Theon,' Robb cut in. 'Gendry, do excuse Theon. He has dung where most men have brains.'

Theon flicked some porridge in Robb's general direction but missed and hit the table near the Septa. She glared at Greyjoy, who nodded an insincere apology at her.

'The Seven take her,' he muttered. 'If those false gods even exist at all.'

'Theon is from the Iron Islands,' Robb explained to Gendry.

'I am the _prince_ of the Iron Islands,' Theon immediately corrected.

Gendry understood the rest without needing to be told: Theon was the hostage Lord Stark had taken after the Greyjoy rebellion ten years earlier.

'Do you like to ride, Gendry?' Jon Snow asked in an obvious change of subject.

'Not especially, but I'm not very good.'

'We'll soon correct that,' Robb told him. 'You can come out riding with us when your smithing allows. Mikken will let you, I'm sure.'

'I'm here to work-'

'Yes, but not only at that.' Robb regarded him seriously – Lord Stark must have shared at least part of the story with his heir. 'You will have time for fun.'

'We'll make sure of it,' Theon promised.

Gendry smiled tightly, still nervous about what the near future actually held, but these boys had made him feel more welcome in one breakfast than the people of King's Landing had in his whole life.

*

Gendry met the women of the Stark family a little later. Summoned to meet Lady Stark, he was shown to her solar. Despite the cold outside, the hot springs that flowed through the walls made the room warm and welcoming.

The Lady herself was a different matter. She regarded him with the same blue eyes as Robb, but with suspicion and hesitation.

'You are Gendry Waters,' she said.

'Yes, m'lady.'

'My Lord husband tells me you are to remain at Winterfell and apprentice with Mikken. And with himself.'

'Yes, m'lady.'

'I have no great love for bastards,' she told him, all the ice of the North in the words. 'But you are welcome at Winterfell. Make sure you make the most of the education you are being given.'

'Yes, m'lady.'

'My lady. Not m'lady. You are... you must make more of yourself.'

For the millionth time he felt his shame and fury bubble up together. 'Yes, my lady.'

He bowed deeply to her, which seemed to satisfy her and as there was nothing more to say, she dismissed him.

Jon Snow was in the training yard when Gendry left, having apparently waited for him. 'It's not you she hates. It's me.'

'Just bastards in general, I think.'

'I'm the constant reminder of my father's dishonour as far as she's concerned.' Jon stared at the ground and kicked a loose stone. 'She would be kinder to you if not for me. I'm sorry for it, Gendry.'

'Not your fault.'

'Do you want to spar?'

'I make swords rather than use them.'

Jon flourished his blade and grinned, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. 'Time to learn, then. My father says you're to learn the ways of the high born folk and we're to help. So I'm going to help.'

'By running me through?'

'If need be.' Jon put the sword down. 'But we'll start with wooden practice blades, eh?'

Gendry relaxed a little. 'Yes please.'

 

*

He met the rest of the Stark family that evening at dinner. Pretty Sansa with her long red hair and poise, but who didn't say a word; sharp-eyed, clever Bran; wild little Rickon who preferred to smash his food with the spoon than eat it. Everyone was assembled in the Great Hall and Gendry was glad to be sat next to Jon, a welcome and already familiar sight. A usual dinner at Winterfell involved a great deal of people but always plenty of food to go round.

Gendry and Jon both scoffed eagerly: their sparring practice had lasted nearly two hours between jokes and the slightly-inarticulate sharing of their life stories. Gendry had never been so open with anyone before in his life, but Jon Snow's honest face and unashamed approach to his life had encouraged him to open up. In turn, Gendry's frankness had done the same. By the end of the session they were both out of breath, sweaty and fast friends.

By habit Gendry took less than his appetite would prefer, from fear that he would be considered greedy or a freeloader. The roast partridge was so rich and well spiced that he could not help but take a little more, washed down with some excellent ale.

Part way through the meal, Lady Stark's voice rose above the din: 'Where's Arya?'

'Halfway to the Wall,' Robb replied. 'She says she's going to live as a Wildling.'

'She wouldn't last five minutes north of the wall,' Theon joked.

Jon disagreed. 'She would, out of sheer bloody-mindedness.'

A few minutes later, a yelp at the other end of the room caught their attention, followed by the clatter of serving tray aganist stone floor.

'That'll be Arya,' Jon muttered between sips of hearty stew.

A child barrelled over to them: small, scrawny and with a bird's nest of dark hair.

'You're in my seat!' it barked, girlish and irritated. Gendry found himself staring at a miniature, scruffier version of Jon or Lord Stark.

'It isn't your seat, Arya,' Jon replied around him. 'If you're going to be late, you can't fault someone for sitting down.'

'But I want to sit next to you!'

'You can sit next to Gendry.'

'Who's Gendry?'

'I am, m'lady,' Gendry told her. Her little mouth curled up into the least menacing scowl he'd ever seen and he bit his lip to keep from laughing.

'Stupid name. Move.'

'No.'

'Move!'

'If you'd asked nicely, I might've done.'

'Jon, are you going to let him speak to me like that? I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell!'

'So?' Jon wouldn't take her bait. 'You're the late Arya Stark of Winterfell. Your mother isn't pleased and she'll be even less pleased to hear how rude you're being to Father's guest.'

'You're a guest? You look like a blacksmith!'

'I am a blacksmith, m'lady.'

'Don't call me that I'm not a lady.'

'What are you then?'

'I'm a wolf!'

'You look more like a toadstool at the moment.' Jon pushed his bowl of stew over to her. 'Eat something before you get sent to bed without supper.'

Arya took only two mouthfuls before she was spotted by Sansa. As predicted, she was hauled off to bed without supper as punishment for being late and being in such a state.

 

*

Gendry began his apprenticeship with Mikken the very next day. Winterfell's smith was a tall, wiry fellow with a grey beard that looked a lot like the metal wires with which he worked. Like almost all the Northern folk Gendry had met so far, he said little but when he did speak, it was worth hearing.

He did not seem overenamoured of having an apprentice at such short notice, but the name Mott helped.

'I've...' Gendry blushed. 'Master Mott was teaching me the secrets of Valyrian steel when I... had to leave.'

Mikken's eyebrows raised almost to the line of his wiry hair. 'Really, boy?'

'Yes, Master.'

'Don't call me bloody Master. Show me what you can do, lad.' He hefted a huge iron greatsword onto the anvil. The sword had several defects: a couple of chips in the blade and a crack near the hilt. 'Umber broke it playing about last night. I swear I'll run him through with it one of these days. Sooner he goes back to Last Hearth the better for us all.'

The words were harsh but the sentiment was as affectionate as anything Gendry had heard since coming north. He had no idea who Umber was, but he set to work fixing the sword.

Later and suitably impressed with how much Gendry could already do – but making it quite clear there was still plenty to learn – Mikken dismissed him to the attention of Lord Stark.

Lord Stark was in his solar, apparently waiting for Gendry. He beckoned to him to sit in a comfortable armchair by the fire and looked at the boy for such a long time that Gendry began to squirm.

'You look so much like him,' Stark said softly. 'Before the world went mad. When we were all happier.'

Gendry knew some of the stories about the death of the Targaryen king Aerys and Robert's Rebellion: certainly enough to know that of all the great families who suffered during that time, few suffered as the Starks had. The man now appraising him was never intended to be Lord of Winterfell...

'I don't know why I'm here, m'lord. I mean, why I was sent here.'

'I think there must be many small answers to the big question. Arryn's letter didn't tell me much but enough to know that something must be very wrong in King's Landing. I worry for his safety. The royal court is a festering wound of a place from what I know of it. Corrupt. Vile.'

Gendry shrugged. 'I wouldn't know, m'lord.'

'That may be your greatest strength, amongst the many I can see you possess. Never lose that, Gendry. Your goodness, your honour.'

'Did you... did you know my mother?'

Ned Stark frowned. 'I have been thinking about this since you arrived. I wish I could say I did but... Robert was... he is my friend, my brother in truth, but I know him. Some people will say they are surprised the king has bastard children acros the land, but I am only surprised there aren't more. I mean no disrespect to your mother. He was very handsome and extremely charming in those days and turned many a head, low and high born. There were many women when Robert was trying to kill the grief of losing my sister. And in truth, before that.'

Lord Stark's opinion of King Robert's behaviour was not clear, but Gendry didn't think he approved. 'I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you more. They were strange times.'

'I understand, m'lord... but what I don't understand is why I matter now. A bastard son has no claim-'

'I do not have all the facts,' Lord Stark interrupted. 'But Arryn has asked me to train you in the ways of lordship, and so I shall. If you are willing.'

'I... yes, m'lord.'

'My lord. Not m'lord. I'm hardly one to speak on pronunciation,' Stark smiled wryly in reference to the supposedly uncouth northern accent he possessed. 'But if you're to be one of them – us – you'll have to speak like us. My lord. My lady.'

'Yes, _my lord_.'

Ned Stark's grin was toothy, surprising. 'You're a bright lad, Gendry. You could go far.'

 *

Gendry's days and nights were busy. Mikken was a tough, demanding master in the best sense. Lord Stark was no less so, although his lessons were by and large less physically demanding.

With Jon's tutelage he quickly picked up swordsmanship; from Robb he learned the basics of archery, though he accepted it would never be his skill; from Lord Stark he learned estate management from agriculture to people to executing people.

Some time after his arrival in the North, a Night's Watch deserter was found on Winterfell lands late one night. Lord Stark, his eldest sons and wards all rode out to see the man and carry out the punishment due.

Lord Stark took no joy in it. That much was clear to Gendry, who had seen enough people take pleasure in the misery and pain of others in King's Landing to know the difference.

'The man who passes sentence should swing the sword.' His entire demeanour was grim: he took no joy but would not bend or flinch. It was the right thing, the necessary thing and Lord Stark always did his duty.

The deserter babbled frantically about things north of the wall, of terrible death and horror, lost to irrational fear of _something_. Lord Stark gave him the chance to speak his peace, then handed down the sentence.

'Don't look away,' Jon muttered to Bran and Gendry. For both it was their first execution. 'He'll know.'

Lord Stark hefted his sword Ice up and gave the deserter a quick, clean execution. There was no elongation of the moment, nothing to cause the man extra pain. His bannermen dealt with the body as Stark and his party returned to Winterfell through the woods.

A massive stag blocked their way, its innards ripped out in such a gory fashion that for a moment they all stared, wondering what manner of beast could've done such a thing. They discovered the answer soon enough: a huge direwolf lay nearby, the stag's antlers having done for it what the wolf's teeth had done for the stag.

'It's a freak!' Theon exclaimed, the stink of blood turning him green.

'It's a direwolf,' Ned told him. Gendry did not miss the look of concern Stark and Ser Rodrik Cassel shared.

'There are no direwolves south of the wall,' Robb said, although the evidence suggested otherwise.

Jon pointed to the tiny cubs crawling around their mother's still-warm corpse in search of comfort and food. 'Now there are five.'

Bran took one eagerly and buried his face in its soft grey fur. Gendry could see what was going to happen: the adults wanted to kill them – a quick death would be better than starving without their mother – and Bran absolutely refused to let that happen. Theon was more than willing to kill the wolf and a tussle began.

Jon stepped in: House Stark's sigil was the direwolf; there were five puppies and five Stark children.

Lord Stark was unhappy at the turn of events, but allowed Bran to snuggle with his even closer, and ordered the remaining  wolves be delivered to the other children. Robb gravitated towards one and before he'd even remounted his horse had named it Grey Wind.

As they left, a bundle of white fur a short distance away caught Gendry's eyes. 'Wait! There's a sixth...'

'The runt of the litter,' Theon cracked. 'That'll be yours then, Snow.' 

Jon took the wolfpup in his arms. Its red eyes gleamed in the dim woodland light. The tiny, almost reluctant smile on Jon's lips was so similar to that of Lord Stark that Gendry shook his head... if Jon Snow was that much like his father, perhaps it was not so unlikely that Gendry was the image of his own natural father.

The other Stark children were as instantly in love with their wolves as Robb, Bran and Jon had been. Lady Stark was less impressed but did not object. Laughter and joy rang out through the castle as it so often did.

Gendry loved it.

*

Time passed. Gendry learned more and more about smithing and lordship alike and soon it was as if he had never been anywhere but Winterfell. The cold hardly troubled him, he sat a horse almost as well as most of the northmen and he and Jon were as close as brothers.

'It is good to see,' Lord Stark said. 'It must be what my father saw when Robert and I returned from the Vale after fostering with Jon.'

'What was it like to be fostered?'

'I missed my home but I loved my time there. Arryn is the best of men and Robert is..... _was_ a brother to me. I'm afraid the Iron Throne has made him a version of himself he should never have been. Power corrupts, Gendry. War too, it forces us to do the unthinkable. Suddenly what we believe is wrong becomes unavoidable.'

He had no answer to that.

One day, a raven black as night arrived at Winterfell during one of Gendry's lessons – understanding finances. _Dark wings, dark words_.

Lord Stark sank into his seat 'Jon Arryn is dead.'

'Dead?'

'Aye. And the King is- gods, he's coming here!'

Gendry's stomach flipped, rose up into his throat and then sank to the pit of his torso and there remained. 'He mustn't see me!'

'Perhaps.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words so far!
> 
> Also, I've amended the date of when this begins in order to fall in line with the discovery of the direwolves...


	4. The King at Winterfell

The King’s Progress was due at Winterfell more than a month after that first raven announcing Lord Arryn’s death. Flurries of notes had since passed between King’s Landing, Winterfell and the Eyrie, where Arryn’s widow had fled.

Winterfell kept busy in that time. Mikken and Gendry worked harder than ever to ensure everything made of metal throughout the castle - from Lord Stark’s personal helm to the smallest of teaspoons - was in good working order.

While Lord Stark quietly grieved for his mentor, his wife was in a more obviously dark mood.

‘Arryn’s widow is her sister,’ Jon told Gendry as they rode through the woods, a week or so before the King’s arrival.

A hunting party had been formed to provide meat for the many extra guests the King would bring with him. Robb had joked that they’d need a dozen extra haunches of venison just for the notoriously gluttonous king and had been silenced by his father, who disliked mockery of the king and unkindness towards his friend.

It could not be denied that the King and his caravan had stopped at many castles and keeps along the way, and every lord had keenly felt the effects on his purse and larder alike.

‘He’ll bankrupt the entire kingdom one lord at a time,’ Lord Stark had muttered under his breath during one lesson with Gendry.

‘My lord,’ Gendry cleared his throat nervously. ‘I would… would you prefer I kept away when the king is here? I would not like to cause you any difficulties.’

Stark stared back at him, searching his face for _something_. ‘I had a raven from Jon Arryn not long before his death. It was cryptic but I suspect King Robert will not be surprised to find you here, lad.’

‘Oh.’ That was not the answer Gendry had expected. What did the king know?

‘You’re coming along so well, Gendry. One year to learn what most lords take a lifetime to understand.’

‘I’m trying my best.’

‘And Mikken says you’ve come a long way.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘Don’t thank me, Gendry. The effort is your own. Do you like it here?’

Gendry nodded emphatically. ‘I do, my Lord. I feel…’

‘Speak openly, my boy.’

‘It is the only true home I’ve known and I love it and everyone in it.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Perhaps not everyone. But… Jon is the best friend I’ve ever known and… I feel as though you are all my family. I don’t mean to be presumptuous and I know I’m just a-’

‘You have the right of it. I am glad and honoured that you feel that way.’ Lord Stark sighed. ‘I do not know why Robert is coming all this way. Things may be very different once he arrives and I do not know whether it is good or bad. Winter is coming.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

 

*

 

‘Ow!’ Gendry rubbed the back of his head. He did not turn around. ‘Arya!’

A girlish giggle issued from somewhere behind him. He had retreated to the Godswood to keep out of the way while the final preparations were being made at the castle. Lady Stark tolerated Jon and she had become quite friendly towards Gendry but the notable presence of two bastard boys during such a visit was too much for her refined Riverlands sensibilities and she had taken to glaring at him without even being consciously aware she was doing it.

‘You’re meant to be with your mother, m’lady.’

‘I hate it when you call me that!’ Her voice was somewhere above, in a treetop somewhere.

‘And that’s why I do it. Get down now, Arya. Your lady mother will be truly angry.’

‘I don’t want to!’

‘Why not? Don’t you want to look nice for the king and his family?’

‘Pox on the king and his family!’

‘Arya! Take that back now.’

‘I won’t! It’s horrible now; everyone’s so serious and grumpy just because of some stupid king. I hate him!’

‘No you don’t.’ He looked around into the canopy but could not see her.

‘No…’ Suddenly she was stood next to him. ‘I don’t really… and I don’t wish a pox on them but Gendry!’

‘What?’

‘She wants me to wear a dress and be like a lady. She wants me to be like _Sansa_.’

He chuckled at the outrage in her grey eyes. ‘Would that be so bad? Your sister is kind and pretty.’

The wrong thing to say: Arya’s face twisted into an ugly scowl. Somewhere nearby he heard her dire wolf Nymeria growl. ‘I HATE SANSA!’

She was on the verge of one of her furies. Gendry took her arms to steady her and wished very much that it was Jon here instead of himself. Jon always knew what to say. ‘No, you don’t. Stop throwing that word around, Arya.’

She struggled against him. ‘I do hate her!’

‘No, you hate being forced to be like her, like a lady. You don’t hate _her_.’

‘I do! She was mean to me! Her and Jeyne Poole were-’ she burst into angry tears and he knew he had found the root of her upset. He was also dearly glad that he’d spent the last year observing how Jon was with Arya. She was a sweet child but had difficulty controlling her temper and as soon as it was out of her control, it was a terrible thing to see.

‘What did they do?’

‘They called me names and… and when Septa Mordane wasn’t looking, Jeyne took my sword!’

‘Oh.’ Gendry knew how fond she was of her little wooden practice sword, and how hard she’d been begging Lord Stark for the chance to really learn. She was an almost constant presence at the training sessions he, Robb and Jon shared each day and nobody could fail to see her interest was genuine.

‘And she put it on the fire and pretended it was an accident and Sansa said so too, so Septa Mordane told _me_ off for telling lies! And I didn’t lie, I didn’t!’

‘I believe you.’ He did. Arya was many things, but brutally honest was one of them. He sat with her until she got her weeping under control.

‘I’m such a stupid _girl_ sometimes,’ she muttered.

‘You are a girl, but you’re not stupid.’

‘Arya? Are you out here?’ After a moment, Jon found them. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’re needed back at the castle.’

‘I’m never going back.’

‘Never is a long time,’ Gendry reminded her.

‘Father says if you come back now and act like a little lady while the King is here, he might consider letting me teach you the sword.’

Arya’s whole face lit up and she was transformed from utter misery to absolute joy. ‘Really?’

‘Aye.’

She launched herself at her brother, who caught her easily and swung her around until they were both dizzy. Gendry watched with a fond smile which faded after a moment, Ned Stark’s grim warning in his head: _winter is coming_.

 

*

 

Gendry’s 16th nameday fell just before the King was finally due. Lord Stark gave him a fine sword which had been in the Stark family for generations. Lady Stark gifted him a set of fine new clothes, leather and fur fit for a lordling. The boys took him into Wintertown for a night’s carousing which seemed to be more for Theon’s benefit than anyone else’s.

Pleasingly drunk but not incapacitated, he and Jon walked back to the castle in the moonlight.

‘I’m going to join the Night’s Watch,’ Jon told him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. It’s an honourable duty and I can’t hope for more in my situation.’

‘But it means…’ Gendry trailed off, thinking of all the things that the men of the Night’s Watch swore _not_ to do.

‘I asked Uncle Benjen yesterday. He’s going to take me with him when he returns to the Wall.’

‘You really mean to do it?’

‘Yes.’ Even in the dark, Gendry could see the set of Jon’s jaw. ‘It’s time I got out of Lady Catelyn’s way.’

‘Don’t let her push you out-’

‘It’s not just that. You… you must feel it too? The difference?’

Gendry nodded. He did feel how they were treated differently by almost all.

‘You have a purpose. You’re a great smith. Mikken tells me you’re even working on Valyrian steel?’

‘Master Mott is teaching me by raven. It’s… not easy.’

‘You have your skill, a place in the world. I don’t.’

‘I understand. I do. But you’re only fourteen-’

Jon bristled at Gentry’s implication that he was still child. ‘I’ll be fifteen soon.’

‘If you think it’s the right thing to do-’

‘It is. What better life than protecting the realm?’

‘I’ll miss you, friend.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’

‘And Arya - gods, how are you going to tell her?’

‘I have an idea about that. Don’t tell anyone.’

‘Course not.’

The rest of the journey was spent talking of less serious things.

 

*

 

The King’s convoy rolled into Winterfell on a crisp morning. The residents of Winterfell lined up in their best as a huge wheelhouse clattered into the courtyard.

Two men on horseback flanked the wheelhouse. One was tall, athletic and revealed himself to be a handsome blond who moved like silk in the breeze. The other was King Robert.

The King was huge in every sense. Taller even than Lord Stark, he had a huge black beard - interrupted by a few grey hairs - and his tunic could not hide his sizable frame. In short, he was extremely fat.

‘Ned!’ He strode over to Lord Stark and embraced him as if they were lads and not the King and Lord of Winterfell. ‘You got old!’

‘You got fat.’

Silence a moment as the King glared down at his friend. Then, he laughed heartily. ‘Indeed I did!’

They waited as the Queen and their three children disembarked from the wheelhouse. The queen was just like the handsome blond man, although her face was unpleasantly contemptuous. The children were all pretty blonds like her: the eldest shared her attitude while the youngest two gazed curiously at their new surroundings.

Lord Stark presented his family - sans Jon - to the royal family, who were then introduced: Queen Cersei and the children Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen.

From his position watching from above, Gendry could see that Sansa was quite taken with two people: dashing Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard and Prince Joffrey. He knew her well enough to know she loved tales of knights and ladies, and could practically see her making up songs in her head.

Arya twitched beside her, clearly bored and uncomfortable in the grey dress she’d been physically forced into only a short while before.

‘The Crypt, Ned!’ the King bellowed. ‘I want to see her.’

 

*

 

Gendry and Jon remained out of sight in the loggia, assuming that they were not welcome in the royal family’s presence. Yet not more than five minutes after Lord Stark and King Robert headed to the Crypt, Jory was sent to fetch Gendry.

‘Me?’ he asked.

Jory rolled his eyes. ‘I only know one Gendry. Go on, the King doesn’t like waiting.’

Gendry had only visited the Crypt once before. The final resting place of generations of Starks was dark and cool, but not an unpleasant place to be. Several torches bathed the Crypt in soft, flickering light.

The King was stood staring up at the statue of Lyanna Stark with Ned nearby. Gendry knew that his natural father had been betrothed to the girl.

Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew the story of Robert Baratheon, Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Robert had gone to war for her but had won the Iron Throne and lost the girl.

‘I miss her still, Ned.’ Robert’s voice was thick and low.

‘Aye, so do I.’

‘I would give up that bloody throne to have her back.’

‘I know.’

‘I never wanted that thing. I didn’t, truly.’

Ned made no reply.

‘I just wanted Storm’s End, Lyanna and a passel of little dark haired babes.’

‘You managed the last part admirably,’ Ned retorted.

‘Aye… which brings us to the real reason…’

‘Gendry,’ Lord Stark called. ‘Come forward, lad.’

He did so. As he moved into the dim light, King Robert’s expression transformed from curiosity to recognition to fury.

‘He was right. By all the gods Ned, Jon was right.’

‘The seed is strong, he said in his letter to me.’

‘The lad Edric… and what was her name, Mya?’

Stark nodded and leaned himself heavily against the wall, tired out by intriguers and nonsense. ‘I don’t wish to say it, Robert. I would do anything for it to be a falsehood-’

‘No Baratheon-Lannister child was ever fair,’ Robert said. ‘The seed is strong. The bloody seed is strong! She has used me ill, Ned!’

‘Ours is the fury,’ Robert said, scarily calm and collected. ‘I will _kill her_.’

Gendry winced.

‘Be cautious,’ Stark advised. ‘I keep trying to think of what Jon would say.’

‘And what would he say?’

‘Be clever, for the Lannisters certainly will be.’

Robert paced, faster than his appearance suggested he could. ‘Crafty, cunning… she’ll dodge the execution’s block all right. That father of hers-’

‘Aye.’

‘What do I do with the boy?’ Robert looked him over again.

‘You will do everything in the correct manner. You will find evidence of the Queen’s adultery and you will act legally. Then you can name Gendry your legitimate heir. He’s the eldest of your bastards.’

‘I could just marry again and have more legitimate offspring. Renly mentioned the Tyrell girl is a good prospect.’

‘Do you have another eighteen years? Gendry here is a fine lad.’

‘He does look like me. Chip off the old block, eh?’ The King slapped him on the back and the first touch from his father warmed his skin under his tunic. ‘16, eh?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘You must’ve been…’ Robert’s eyes misted over. ‘It can’t have been long after… Perhaps the gods have been good after all. Finally I can be free of those fucking Lannisters.’

‘But you must be wise, Robert,’ Stark counselled. ‘Jon was killed for this.’

‘I’ll be wise.’ Robert turned his familiar blue eyes onto his son. ‘Gendry, is it?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Arryn told me about you, the boy he spirited away to the North for safekeeping. You’d better be ready. Your life is about to be ruined.’

Gendry had no answer to this.

‘What will you do about the Queen?’ Lord Stark asked.

‘I’ve got a couple of guards watching her every moment of the day. The only man she’s ever seen with is that king-slaying brother of hers. Come on, let’s get out of this miserable place.’ Robert stared up at the stone face of Lyanna Stark’s sarcophagus and his whole posture collapse for a moment. ‘My Lyanna is not here.’

Gendry followed them out into the sunshine and breathed easily for a moment.

 

*

 

The feast that night was a riot of noise, a heaving mass of bodies from the highest to the lowest, a rich mix of rich spiced food.

Stark had specifically told Gendry not to attend, not for his low birth but to keep him safe from the Queen and her people. If they didn’t know he existed, he could not be in danger.

He remained in the forge, working on the idea that Jon had had for Arya. The hot fire and steady sting of hammer on steel soothed his soul.

Meeting the King hadn’t been what he’d expected. The man was dissolute, selfish, quick to rage and had all the marks of a man who had given up on life.

He was disappointed. All the stories he’d heard about Robert Baratheon were as big as the man and his appetites: too huge to be believed sometimes.

The figure he’d seen was worn-down by his life, bowed if not wholly broken. The alcohol had dulled what Gendry suspected had never been a first-class mind.

He finished the commission as the sun was rising. He was tired to his bones but exhilarated by the achievement. Mikken arrived as the cocks crowed.

‘Fine work, Gendry lad. Fine work indeed.’ Mikken’s mouth twitched in something which might have been the start of a hint of a smile.

‘Thank you.’

‘She’ll be right happy with that, I’d wager.’

‘Not when she discovers why-’

Mikken chuckled. ‘Aye. We’d be best off out of it when he breaks the news.’

 

*

 

There was one piece of news which could cause a greater stir than Jon Snow’s announcement of his decision to take the black.

King Robert rose from his seat at the latest feast, a week into the royal party’s stay. His tankard sloshed uneasily. ‘I thank the Starks for their generous hospitality while we’ve been here in Winterfell. Spending time here with my oldest friend Ned makes me feel young again.’

‘He doesn’t look it,’ Jon muttered.

He and Gendry had taken a place hidden near the back of the Great Hall where nobody would see Gendry and where he could make his escape if necessary.

‘Fair Lady Catelyn,’ the King continued, ‘Who has made the cold, barren north a warm and welcoming hearth for us to put up at while she puts up with us.’

A roar of collective laughter rattled the silverware on the tables.

‘I hope you will forgive me Cat.’

‘What for, Your Grace?’

‘For stealing your husband away from you.’

Catelyn Stark’s jaw clenched. ‘That was many years ago, Your Grace, and the cause was just.’

‘A second time, My Lady. Lord Stark is to become the Hand of the King.’

It was not a surprise to Lady Stark but the rest of the Hall had not known. Gendry wondered if it was all part of the larger scheme he had caught a glimpse of in the Crypt.

‘It’s all changing,’ he mumbled.

Jon nodded. ‘Winter is coming.’

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words so far...
> 
> Dedicated particularly to DrHolland while she waits for the Hollow.


	5. On Their Way

Ravens arrived at and left from Winterfell so regularly that Gendry was seconded from Mikken to the rookery. There he spent interminable hours cooped up with the birds, dispatching letter after letter after letter.

He had been at Winterfell for just over a year and his reading and writing had improved hugely under Maester Luwin and Lord Stark’s tutelage, so he was able to read just how trivial most of the ravens were, thanks to the spoilt Queen and her demand for luxuries.

_Send more Dornish wine._

_Need more furs._

_Damn this cold to the seven hells._

_Bring more whores._

_I miss you darling, more than I can say._

Then there were the incredibly boring political and estate management ravens that the Lords felt they had to send. Most of them had castellans and stewards who were more than capable of looking after the lands the Lords rarely even visited, but if Gendry had learnt anything from this visit, it was that a lot of people spent a lot of their time in efforts to look important.

A thought struck Gendry quite forcibly that _doing_ important things would achieve that quite effectively, but none of them seemed interested in that.

He had hardly been yearning for a return to King’s Landing but now, seeing the Court in reality, he had no desire to leave Winterfell. He would though, very much like to leave the foul-aired Rookery.

‘GENDRY!’ It was Arya’s voice that ripped into the tedium of his day. Soon enough she was there, a bouncing ball of furious energy. ‘Did you know? Did you?’

He didn’t look up from the note he was securing to his latest raven. ‘Know what, m’lady?’

‘JON! He’s going to the WALL!’

‘Oh.’

‘You did! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it’s not my business to go about telling anyone else’s business to their little sisters.’ Gendry sent yet another bird on its way. ‘And the way you’re acting, I’m very glad I didn’t have to be the one.’

Arya flung herself onto the stained chair which had been Gendry’s only resting place for some time. ‘It’s not fair!’

‘What’s not fair?’

‘Jon’s going to the Wall! And Father says I’m going to King’s Landing. I’ll never see him ever, ever again! He’s going to take the black and forget all about me.’

Gendry took pity. For all that she was noisy, demanding and bossy, Arya was still only a child. An indulged little princess if ever there was one, facing a massive change to her world.

He nudged her over so he could sit down with her, although he balanced precariously on the edge of the chair.

‘I don’t know if you’ll get to see him again.’ Gendry was always scrupulously honest with her and found even at her tender age she understood and respected that. ‘But you’re daft if you think he could or would ever forget about you. You’re his favourite of everyone in Winterfell. In all Westeros.’

‘Am I?’

‘Of course you are.’

Arya leaned against him. ‘I don’t want to leave either.’

‘You’ll have lots of adventures in King’s Landing. And think how happy you’ll be when you come back here.’

‘I won’t come back either. Sansa says we’re going to be married off to princes and lords.’ Arya looked like she was on the edge of vomiting at that notion.

‘You’re eleven, Arya. That won’t happen for a good long while.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. And you and I both know your father would never, ever choose anyone for you who wasn’t worthy.’

Arya sighed the long deep sigh of a troubled child. He shooed her off the chair.

‘I’ve got work to do,’ he reminded her. ‘Go and find Jon.’

‘I don’t want to speak to him ever again!’

‘You’re upset because you might never see him again, and you’re going to refuse to speak to him? That doesn’t make sense, m’lady.’

Arya huffed. ‘Shut up, stupid!’

She left as quickly as she’d arrived and he almost wondered if he’d dreamt it. Only the sound of Nymeria’s final suspicious growl at the ravens before she followed her human away from the Rookery proved otherwise.

 

*

 

It had taken the royal party a month to get from King’s Landing to Winterfell, and another month to eat and drink the Winterfell larder to the point of empty while the residents prepared for their change in situation.

The King had sent the Queen and her party ahead after only three weeks. It was a kindness to all: the Queen clearly detested the North and the North was not much fond of her.

Only Sansa felt the absence and she sniffled for Prince Joffrey two full days after she waved him off, but began to rally a little afterwards thanks to Robb’s gentle sympathy, Theon’s blunt teasing and the constant warm presence of her wolf Lady.

On Jon’s last night at the Castle, after a somewhat subdued farewell feast, he and Gendry sat on a quiet parapet looking north.

The next day, the remainder of the King’s people would begin their journey south. Benjen Stark was heading North to the Wall taking with him all varied supplies he could scrounge for the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow and an unlikely guest: Tyrion Lannister.

Gendry had kept himself away from all the Lannisters, but Jon said that the youngest of that trio of siblings was actually all right.

‘He’s… he’s very clever. He’s not like his snotty sister or his arrogant brother. He didn’t look down on me for being a bastard. You’d like him.’

‘I’m a blacksmith,’ Gendry reminded him. ‘You’re the bastard of a Lord. I’m the bastard of a woman in a tavern. I think.’

‘Right.’ Jon raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I can’t think of anyone who might be related to you.’

They had not spoken only of it, but it was clear Jon had worked it out.

‘You were right to stay out of the way,’ he said. ‘You have the King’s look about you, just as Arya and I have the Stark look. The way Tyrion talks about his sister… you wouldn’t be safe. You might still not be.’

They were quiet then, musing and listening to the sound of the feasting below.

Theon interrupted them after a moment: ‘We’re not disturbing you, are we? A romantic moment in the moonlight before a tearful farewell in the morning?’

‘Grow up, Theon,’ Robb called from behind as they climbed up onto the wall. Both carried bottles - ale and mead - which they handed to Jon and Gendry.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of slurping.

‘They’re all leaving in the morning.’ Robb yawned.

‘And you’ll be the Lord of all Winterfell,’ Theon replied. ‘We’ll have a high time.’

Jon disagreed: ‘Not with Gendry as your steward.’

‘Much too well behaved.’ Robb nudged him gently.

Gendry reddened. ‘You make me sound awful.’

‘You are awful.’ Theon snatched the bottle from him.

Robb yanked it away from him before he could drink. ‘But we like you. I don’t want this. Not yet. I wish the King hadn’t demanded my father go with him.’

Theon snatched the bottle once more and swigged before anyone could stop him. ‘He could have asked any lord. Why Lord Stark?’

Jon had the answer: ‘There aren’t many people a King can trust. Lord Stark is honourable and honest to his bones and the King’s oldest friend. Who would you choose?’

‘It’s a pretty poor way to repay a friendship.’ Gendry had been quiet until now. ‘The most thankless job in the Seven Kingdoms. All the blame and none of the glory.’

‘Lord Stark could’ve taken the Iron Throne you know,’ Theon said, almost as if it were nothing at all. ‘Once he captured the Kingslayer, the throne and the Kingdoms were his for the taking.’

‘So the King knows that Father is the only man in Westeros that doesn’t want to steal it from him. A perfect Hand.’

Theon changed the subject. ‘I think we should go to town. Give Snow a suitable send off before he swears off women forever.’

‘I’m comfortable here.’ Jon shrugged away from him. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’

‘I’ll never understand your aversion-’

‘You have your father’s name,’ Jon snapped. ‘I can’t do that to someone else. I won’t.’

‘You’ll go to your grave never knowing a woman?’ Theon scoffed.

‘Shut up, Theon.’

 

*

 

The next morning, Robb and Theon waved off the rest of the Starks as they began their journey away. There were hugs and many tears and the howling of wolves as the pack separated.

Gendry, on Lord Stark’s discreet request, rode out with them until the first rest stop. All that way, Arya chattered to him about the sword Jon had given her. She had named it Needle and it was the only thing that could possibly have cheered her.

Stark took him aside. ‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Robb will do a fine job with your help. It will be useful for you, too… I’m sorry you won’t be able to work in the forge.’

‘I go where you ask me, Lord Stark.’

‘Thank you, Gendry. I feel safer knowing Winterfell rests with you and Robb.’

‘I hope you have a safe journey to the capital, Lord Stark.’

Ned rolled his eyes. ‘I’m more concerned with our safety once we get there.’

Gendry watched from afar as Lord Stark and Jon had an awkward but affectionate farewell under the judging glare of Lady Catelyn. She was not pleased to be leaving Winterfell and was taking out her frustration on her habitual target. She had hardly even let him say goodbye to her children.

Arya, of course, had paid no attention to her mother and clung to Jon for as long as she could. In the end, he had to peel her away and hand her off to their father.

They watched the Starks go, and then faced off to bid each other farewell.

‘My father said he’d tell me about my mother when we next meet,’ Jon told him, eyes moist. ‘I would almost turn back now.’

‘Are you sure the Night’s Watch is for you?’

‘Aye.’ Jon frowned. ‘I know it in my bones.’

‘Get them bones on a horse, Jon!’ Benjen shouted down from his own mount. ‘It’s a long way to the Wall yet.’

Jon and Gendry hugged briefly.

‘I’ve never had a truer friend than you,’ Gendry told Jon. ‘Whatever happens in our lives, I think that will always be so.’

‘Same here.’

The men of the Night’s Watch were not the type to tarry, for which Gendry was glad: he wanted to return to Winterfell before nightfall.

He had forgotten that amongst those travelling to the wall was Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf regarded him with keen, curious eyes as his horse followed the convoy of horses and carts. Gendry felt not particular menace from him, but shivered just the same.

 

*


	6. Dark Wings, Darker Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry meets Tyion Lannister. Robb is now the sole Stark at Winterfell. Ravens sent from Lord Stark chart the rest of the family's attempts to settle in King's Landing...
> 
> but dark wings bear dark, dark news.

Winterfell was a strange and eerie place with so many residents absent. One Stark, a Greyjoy and a Waters could not create the same amount of noise and bustle as an entire highborn family and its retinue.

Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik Cassel had remained as advisers to Robb but most of the family’s personal staff had gone to King’s Landing.

Theon was devastated to learn that his favourite whore had taken the chance to join the van and was now taking her wares to the capital, far from him.

‘How far is it to King’s Landing?’ he moped, some days after the departures.

‘Seven hundred leagues along the Kingsroad.’ Robb yawned, having answered the same question six times since dawn.

Lord Stark wrote from their first full stop at the Crossroads inn that he was already sick and tired of politics.

More time passed. The Starks settled into life in King’s Landing with varying shades of success: Ned hated but tolerated it while Lady Stark had forgotten how much she missed sunshine and luxuries and was more than happy to reacquaint herself with them.

Sansa adored being adored by all; Arya had taken a shine to what she called “water dancing” lessons but wanted to be at home and hated King’s Landing; Bran loved exploring the many nooks and crannies of the Red Keep but kept dreaming of the North; Rickon was so badly behaved that Lady Stark was forced to keep him and Shaggydog separated almost constantly.

Several moons passed without incident as they settled into their new routine of Robb-led Winterfell life.

Lord Stark’s regular correspondence with both Robb and Gendry made it clear that the civilised elite of King’s Landing considered the rough northerners to be curiosities and oddballs suitable only for a travelling show. Except for Sansa. All of King’s Landing - from high to low - were enchanted by the beautiful young girl with her northern name and her striking Tully features.

The Queen’s own opinion of Northerners had not changed, but even she was apparently taken with the girl and giving Sansa quite a master class in how to dominate the court.

Tyrion Lannister stopped at Winterfell on his return from the Wall. Gendry tried to avoid him but with the castle so quiet it was difficult, and made more so when he apparently asked for him personally.

‘He asked for Robert Baratheon’s bastard,’ Robb’s brows were furrowed almost into a single line but he did his best to sound unconcerned.

Gendry’s pride rose up and he refused to be fearful or awed by any Lannister. ‘He can find me if he wants to speak to me that badly.’

Gendry thus met Tyrion Lannister in the hot forge. Between Mott’s letters and Mikken’s tutelage, his work was getting ever more accomplished. Lord Stark had asked if he might make a set of direwolf brooches for all the Starks and what would have been far beyond his skill in the Street of Steel was merely a task to relish in Winterfell.

‘You are Robert’s bastard.’ Tyrion thus announced himself. ‘Please, I understand your suspicion of me, but you are in no danger from me. I am neither as cold-hearted as my father nor hot-headed as my sister. And as it happens, I have a soft spot for bastards.’

‘Oh?’ Gendry continued working.

‘All dwarfs are bastards in their fathers’ eyes.’

‘I imagine that’s probably true.’

‘How did you come to be in Winterfell? Does Robert know of you? How did you manage to stay hidden while we were here?’ Tyrion rattled off a list of questions, more curious than suspicious but Gendry remained silent.

‘Of course you have absolutely no reason to trust me,’ Tyrion finally said. ‘But I’m not like my family. They’re all so much taller for one thing.’

‘Do you want me to pity you for being a dwarf? Or laugh? Or hate you? I don’t _care_. I’m very busy-’

‘I knew I liked you. You really do remind me of-’

‘The King?’

‘No.’ Tyrion blinked. ‘Eddard Stark.’

Gendry felt himself blush. It was one of the nicest things he could think of anyone saying about him.

Tyrion remained at Winterfell for longer than expected, and Gendry had to assume it was something to do with him given that Lannister hardly troubled himself with Robb. That first, awkward meeting had led to many conversations once Tyrion realised that if he left Gendry’s paternity aside, they had much in common. They had similar thoughts regarding the welfare of the smallfolk in King’s Landing, although Tyrion was all for providing support so that would spend more money and Gendry wanted it because it was simply the right thing to do.

Gendry was also fascinated to hear about Tyrion’s adventure to the Wall and about the tales being told up there of the Others and wights. He thought back to the young deserter Lord Stark had executed and wondered if there had been some truth to his maddened ravings after all.

During one such conversation over dinner, they shared tales of the unexplained, the supernatural and the terrifying.

‘They’re just stories Old Nan told to scare us,’ Robb had no time for tales of the Others. ‘There haven’t been White Walkers for thousands of years.’

‘And yet I don’t think the Wall was built to keep out the Wildling rabble,’ Tyrion replied mildly, supping at his ale. ‘I think I will take myself to Winter Town for some nocturnal entertainment.’

‘I shall accompany you, my lord,’ Theon said, no longer so terribly grieved at the loss of Ros to the south.

Tyrion and Theon took off to the warm beds of the local brothel while Robb and Gendry took to reading yet more on the nature of lordship. Neither young man was particularly fond of the task but both young men felt the pressure of expectations weighing on his shoulders.

 

*

 

Bad tidings began to arrive in quick secession. Sansa’s direwolf had been executed after some incident with Prince Joffrey. Lord Stark’s report to Robb was brief but involved Joffrey, Arya’s wolf (now missing) and a scuffle in the training yard at the Red Keep. Only the King’s intervention had prevented further reprisals against Arya, who swore on the assembled graves of her ancestors, that she had only nicked the Prince with Needle when _he_ had challenged _her_ to duel. Quite where the wolf came in was uncertain but Arya swore Nymeria had been defending her from Joffrey, who had not taken the defeat well.

Robb read that news with a certain amount of amusement, having been thoroughly unimpressed with the snivelling, sneering Crown Prince during the Winterfell visit. That Sansa was broken-hearted at the loss of her wolf was undoubted and she had not left the Tower of the Hand since, not even to take tea with the Queen.

The Queen’s opinion was obvious, Lord Stark wrote. Only the King’s absolute disaffection for the woman was what kept Arya and Sansa safe.

Indeed - Lord Stark wrote - the King had never been fond of Cersei Lannister but now made no attempt to hide his contempt for his wife. Lord Stark had been forced to intervene during a feast one evening, lest the King punch his own wife in front of the entire court. Cersei’s own attitude was worse in King’s Landing even than it had been at Winterfell, for she had no reason to be polite to anyone on her home turf.

Lord Stark had enclosed several notes from Robb’s siblings and mother, along with some passably-competent drawings of King’s Landing scenes by Sansa and Bran. Reckon sent art of his own: an inky print of his hand next to one which was, according to the title scribed by Lady Stark, Shaggydog’s.

They laughed and Robb had the pictures hung in Lord Stark’s solar.

Worse tidings, with no humour to be found at all, followed only days later. Bran, who had never found a wall he couldn’t climb, then fell from some height in the castle and though alive, was comatose. Nobody knew what had happened, or even exactly where he’d fallen from.

Distraught, Lady Stark remained by his bedside. Lord Stark had begun an investigation in conjunction with the Master of Whispers but nothing had been discovered yet. It was all Gendry and Theon could do to calm Robb down enough to stop him riding to King’s Landing.

‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,’ Theon reminded him.

‘If anything, they’ll bring Bran back here,’ Gendry added. ‘He’d be much better recovering here at home.’

‘If he recovers,’ Robb replied darkly, head in his hands. ‘He’s just a little boy. How could this happen?’

‘Accidents happen,’ Theon told him. ‘He was forever climbing too high-’

Robb sighed. ‘In nine years, he never _ever_ fell. Not here. Bloody King’s Landing.’

 

*

 

On the very morning that Tyrion Lannister was finally to take his leave of Robb Stark and Winterfell - almost nine moons since Ned Stark left Winterfell for King’s Landing - a black raven arrived from King’s Landing as they were at breakfast, bearing two messages.

Robb stood, hoping for glad tidings of Bran but the rookery boy approached Tyrion first. ‘For you, m’lord.’

He handed the second message to Robb before he scurried away.

Gendry ceased eating, watching the two men read. Strange, unreadable expressions flitted across Tyrion’s face as he took in whatever news it bore.

Tyrion ended the lengthy silence with a flat voice: ‘My sister is dead. Her children are dead. Dead…’

‘A fire,’ Robb added, reading his own letter. ‘Maegor’s Holdfast.’

Gendry blinked several times. ‘An… accident?’

‘It is not yet known,’ Tyrion replied, voice hollow and stunned. ‘My brother Jaime was badly injured trying to save them.’

‘My sincerest condolences, m’lord.’ Gendry meant it. Tyrion seemed more surprised and shocked than genuinely sad, but whoever could tell how grief would hit a man?

Robb’s letter had contained more detail. ‘Ser Barristan was also injured, Ilyn Payne killed by falling beams… Oh! Gendry, you are summoned to King’s Landing at once.’

He shut his eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths. ‘Why me?’ He feared the answer he knew was coming.

Tyrion gave voice to the new reality: ‘You are now the King’s heir.’

Gendry’s heart was in his feet. ‘Oh dear gods.’

‘You’ll need all Seven to help you through,’ Tyrion told him. ‘I do not envy you.’

‘Nor I,’ Robb said. ‘But there is one sliver of good news.’

‘Oh?’

‘Bran is awake. He has no feeling in his legs, but he is awake.’

‘Thank the old gods and the new,’ Gendry said.

‘Well,’ Tyrion raised his glass. ‘At least I will have a travelling companion I can tolerate. Will you be ready to leave at first light?’

Gendry groaned quietly. ‘I will have to be.’

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kind words so far.


	7. Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in King's Landing, getting some news, getting reacquainted.

Gendry’s journey from Winterfell to King’s Landing passed in more luxury and ease than the journey North just over two years earlier.

Tyrion made for an excellent and jolly travelling companion. Gendry was not exactly surprised by this: he had grown fond of the youngest Lannister since meeting him, although still could not bring himself to trust one of the red-and-gold clan. Yet, given the bleak news they’d received, Gendry had expected Tyrion to at least be subdued.

Instead, Tyrion drank and whored at every rest stop; he laughed, japed and made witty remarks to pass the time during the long slog along the Kingsroad.

‘I hate my sister,’ Tyrion finally admitted. It was a dark night, dry but cold, and they were sat so close to the campfire that a stray spark would’ve set their cloaks alight. ‘My hatred for her is exceeded only by her hatred for me.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Well, it is no particular matter. She hates almost everyone who is not Cersei Lannister.’

Gendry did not have the heart to point out that Tyrion still referred to his sister in the present tense.

‘Do not feel too sorry for me, young stag. My father still lives so there is still plenty of hatred dedicated to me.’

‘What about your brother? The Kingslayer.’

Tyrion frowned. ‘Jaime is a good brother to me. He is… he is a complicated man. He is a better man that anyone knows. I hope he will survive.’

For the first time, Tyrion’s composure cracked. ‘If Jaime dies, I will have no friends left in my own family.’

‘I cannot imagine,’ Gendry began nervously, ‘what it would be like to have my family hate me.’

‘Because you do not have one.’

Gendry bristled at that. ‘I have had family, of a sort. I have some memory of my mother. Blonde and smiling, and affectionate too. Tobho Mott has been ever-good to me, as have the Starks. I have a sort of family, cobbled together and unofficial though it is.’

‘Perhaps I should take after you.’ Tyrion took a long, deep swig from a bottle of something Gendry didn’t recognise but which was apparently a delicacy in this part of the Neck, a spirit made from marsh barley. It smelled strong, whatever it was. ‘And choose a family of my own. After all, mine is now much diminished in size.’

Tyrion drank again, belched and fell back onto the ground unconscious. Gendry took a blanket and draped it over him.

‘Sweet dreams, m’lord.’

He settled himself down to sleep and felt himself in many ways far, far more fortunate than a child of the richest man in Westeros.

 

*

 

A storm forced them to take shelter two days’ ride north of the Trident. So much had happened in so little time that Gendry found himself grateful for the involuntary pause at an unimpressive little inn where the innkeeper’s daughter fluttered her eyelashes at him.

It felt like only days since he had met the King in the Winterfell Crypt, although it was most of a year. It felt like everything bad had happened in the course of a few hours, although it was weeks… and now he was on his way to King’s Landing to what, become  heir to the throne ? It was ridiculous.

He wanted to laugh and laugh until his stomach hurt, but it was too tragic for that. At no point since Arryn saw him had Gendry wanted this. He knew plenty of people who coveted power, but he wasn’t one of them, was he?

He didn’t want power. He wanted to be comfortable of course, and he wanted to be his own man, but if his training at Winterfell had proved anything it was that he did not wish to rule over others.

He still knew so little of what had been going on in the capital. Winterfell was so isolated from the rest of the kingdom that most news took on a semi-mythical slant by the time it reached them.

He was glad for the pause.

 

*

 

Travelling in a small and determined party such as theirs, Gendry and Tyrion arrived in King’s Landing after a journey of only twenty days and nights. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon as they arrived.

Nobody greeted them at the Gate except the usual guards who granted or denied passage into the City.

‘I sent word that we would be arriving this evening,’ Tyrion told Gendry. ‘I did not want a welcoming party.’

‘Oh?’

‘I have things I would like do before being thrown back into the pit.’

‘I see.’

‘Perhaps you have somewhere you would like to be? A soft woman somewhere in Flea Bottom?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I didn’t think so but I like to wonder. Come with me, then.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘The best brothel in seven kingdoms.’

‘I’d rather not. I… I do have someone I’d like to see.’

Tyrion smirked at him as they bid each other a temporary farewell. He wasn’t to know that Gendry meant an old blacksmith. Even on a tired horse, the journey to the Street of Steel was quick. Nothing looked particularly changed about the area, and the familiarity was comforting - even the stench of effluent, rotting food and somewhere above that, fresh meat pies.

‘Hello Master.’ Gendry had grown a couple more inches in the two years gone and felt as if he almost had to bend double to enter Tobho Mott’s shop. The man himself was already hard at work, the morning’s fire fresh and fierce already as he repaired a piece of Kingsguard armour.

‘Bloody hell! Gendry? I didn’t expect to see you so- well, ever!’

‘I can’t be long… I’ve been summoned.’

‘I thought you would be, when I heard the news.’

‘What did you hear?’ It suddenly occurred to Gendry that speaking to Mott would be the closest thing to truth he was likely to hear, if Lord Stark’s descriptions of the royal court were anything to go by.

Mott laid down his hammer and leaned against an empty anvil. ‘I only know what I hear in the streets, mark you.’

‘I’m still interested.’

‘The word is that the fire was started by the Queen.’

‘The Queen?’

‘An accident, supposedly. Something to do with some candles too near some drapes.’

‘You don’t believe that?’

‘Course not. Number of people around the Queen, one candle and a curtain isn’t going to bring down Maegor’s Holdfast, are they? Think, boy!’

Gendry flushed red for a moment. ‘I didn’t think it was an accident, Master.’

‘Don’t call me that anymore, boy- My Lord.’

There was an awkward moment of silence as they both considered the new power balance between them.

‘What else?’ Gendry asked. ‘What else is being said? Why would the Queen start a fire that killed her and her children?’

‘Nobody knows. But nobody thinks it was an accident, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

‘Do people mourn?’

‘Mourn the Queen Bitch, or the King’s Injustice?’ Mott scoffed. ‘Not likely.’

‘But the children-’

‘The older one was notorious,’ Mott interrupted. ‘Sadistic little bastard.’

Gendry couldn’t argue with that.

‘But no, the other two. The young ones. I heard from Edris Lorain that the little prince was found still clutching a kitten and the little princess helped her maid escape but got caught in the firestorm. Do you want tea?’

Gendry closed his eyes a moment. He knew what it was to be burned - he was a blacksmith’s apprentice! - and such a death was not fair, even to Joffrey and the Queen.

‘Tell me-’ Gendry cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘Tell me how the city itself has been since… since I left.’

Mott shrugged. ‘Much the same here. How’s your Valyrian steel coming on?’

Gendry grinned and pulled a small dagger out of his bag. It was unfinished but unmistakably special. Mott examined it carefully and whistled.

‘Well done, lad. My lord, I mean.’

Gendry chuckled. ‘I’ll always be boy or lad to you, Master Mott.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, methinks. Did you want tea?’

‘No, thank you… Seriously… what has it been like here? Did I put you to trouble by leaving so suddenly?’

‘Of course you did! I got myself a new apprentice but he’s not half as skilled as you were at his age.’

‘I’m sorry-’

‘Never be sorry for taking the chance for something better, lad!’ Mott barked. ‘I knew you were destined for something more than the Street of bloody Steel! I didn’t know it was what it was but… you’re worthy of more. I’m bloody glad you got out. Got an education. Gods knows what I could’ve done with an education like you’ve got. Books and the like.’

‘You’re smart-’

‘But I’m not educated. There’s a difference. I know my letters and numbers which is a lot more than many folks hereabouts. I can negotiate a good deal with anyone and I can make strong armour as thin as a sheet of parchment. But I don’t know history or art and politics, or whatever highborn things it is you’ve been learning.’

‘I should go soon…’

‘Aye.’

Awkward silence again.

‘I tell you what,’ Mott said suddenly. ‘There was definitely something amiss.’

‘What?’

‘Ameca Lorain works at the Castle, in the laundries and she heard that the King and Queen were openly arguing like never before. And that’s not even mentioning the bastards-’

‘What bastards?’

‘Bastards been going missing. Boys, girls, anyone under your age, more or less… all of them dark of hair and blue of eye.’

‘Just like me.’

‘Aye. One or two at first. Nobody hardly notices if a bastard brat goes missing for a day or two, not around here. But a couple of the whores in that fancy brothel started wailing about their children. One wasn’t even off the tit when his mother came back from a servicing to find his crib empty.’

‘And what do people say?’ Gendry asked. He knew the answer, but wanted it confirmed.

‘Well…’ Mott looked at him as if he were particularly slow. ‘It sounds very much to anyone with half a brain that someone was getting rid of the King’s by-blows.’

‘Aye.’ Gendry sighed. ‘Lord Arryn saved my life.’

‘Much good it did him.’

‘And what of Lord Arryn? How did he die?’

‘Old age, I suppose. Nobody thought anything more than that. Why… do you think otherwise?’

‘No, no.’ Gendry was lying. His mind whirled with all the possibilities and conspiracies that had been mulling in his mind for so long. ‘I really should be going.’

‘Aye. Those white cloaks outside the door shouldn’t be kept waiting.’

Gendry hadn’t noticed the half-dozen men outside the shop. ‘How long have they been there?’

‘Not long… but if you needed proof there’s no secrets in the Landing-’

‘I’ve got it. Thank you, Master Mott. I’ll see you soon.’

‘I doubt that, my lord.’

Gendry wanted to disagree but too much was uncertain… he bowed to his former master and left the shop.

To his relief, Jory Cassell was with the Kingsguard. ‘The King asked us to escort you safely back to the Red Keep, my lord.’

Gendry stifled a heavy sigh. ‘Best be going, then.’

 

*

 

Gendry had not seen much inside the Castle during his first brief and baffling visit, and although he did his best to remain calm, the hugeness of the place was not comforting.

Despite the passage of some time, the memory of the fire remained in the air like a shroud of ash and death.

To his relief, he was greeted at the castle gate by the Hand of the King himself. They shook hands formally, but LED Stark’s smile was warm.

‘I thought you’d want to eat and clean up before being thrown to the lions.’ Stark paused. ‘Bad choice of words.’

‘Was it?’

‘There are precious few of them left.’ Ned’s expression was stonier than he’d ever seen it, and it struck Gendry that Stark looked exhausted beyond a point of reason.

‘I apologise m’lord, for not asking earlier: how is Bran?’

‘Awake. Crippled. My boy…’

Gendry dared grasp Lord Stark’s shoulder. ‘I’m truly, truly sorry.’

‘I know you are, lad.’ Ned gripped his shoulder in echo. ‘I know. Once you’ve washed up, come to my solar and we’ll talk.’

‘Thank you, m’lord but… where will I be staying?’

‘With the King, of course.’

‘Oh…’

‘Jory, take Gendry to his rooms.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

Although the fire had been hugely destructive, Maegor’s Holdfast was too strong and large a construction to have been razed. Gendry was surprised to discover that - flame stink notwithstanding - most of the holdfast was still usable. The King’s apartments had been damaged and so he had moved across to another set of rooms, near which Gendry had been put.

A suite of six rooms - including a bedroom larger than the entirety of Mott’s forge - had been given over to Gendry’s use. Luxurious Myrish rugs and Donnish glassware decorated the rooms and someone had put richly-scented incense in the rooms to mask the burnt smell.

Gendry would not show his awe in front of Jory, so dismissed him quickly, but not without a wry smile shared between them.

A bath had been prepared in front of the huge, roaring fire and he peeled off his dirty, damp clothes and slid into it.

After three weeks where the most impressive bathing had been the Trident itself, the bath was almost as good as a dip in the Winterfell godswood pools.

Fresh clothes awaited him. Better quality than anything he’d worn before even at Winterfell, the Baratheon sigil did not go unnoticed. Once dressed, he stood and stared at himself in the looking glass. Taller and broader than he remembered, his long hair clean and neat, he looked worryingly like the illustrations he’d seen of Robert during the Rebellion.

One in particular had always stood out since he’d seen it in a book in the Winterfell library. An artist had tried to capture the moment that Robert slew Rhaegar Targaryen. Clearly trying to curry favour, the artist had portrayed Robert as huge, powerful and warrior-like in contrast to slender, weak Rhaegar. He didn’t like to think it and certainly didn’t really believe it, but that’s what he felt was staring back from the mirror.

He was interrupted by a loud bang on the door. Before he could grant entry, the door burst open and in raced Rickon Stark. He looked almost as neat as Gendry but still half-wild.

‘You’re here!’ Rickon leapt at Gendry, who had only a moment to catch him. He’d grown of course, now almost six years old and hero worship shone from his little face. ‘Will it get fun again now?’

‘I don’t know, Ric. I didn’t think you’d remember me.’

‘I do! And Bran reminded me of playing in the woods with you and Shaggy.’ Rickon scowled. ‘They make Shaggy stay in the stables.’

‘Now,’ Gendry set him gently down on the window seat and noticed for the first time that he had a tremendous view across the waters. He had wanted to say this since first reading about the separation, and could only pray to the old gods and the new that the little lord listened to him. ‘You know that’s because Shaggydog can be very badly behaved and scares people.’

‘But he-’

‘If you took the time to train him properly, you could have him with you more, and then you could go out into the Kingswood to play like we used to.’

Rickon had been told this by his lord father, lady mother and siblings many times, but appeared to listen to Gendry.

‘Will you come with us?’

‘Of course. I don’t want to be stuck in this Keep all the time any more than you do. But we have to learn to play by their rules, or better yet, pretend to play by their rules.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ Gendry was unsure whether he was trying to convince the child or himself. ‘Really.’

Rickon clung to him. ‘I miss Robb.’

‘I know. So do I.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Yes, he’s very well. He misses you though. Misses you a lot. He’d like a letter from you, I’d wager.’

‘But I can’t write proper yet!’

‘Practice, then.’

Rickon scrambled off the bed and ran off with a squealed ‘I will!’

Gendry laughed and hoped more than believed that their conversation would have anything more than a fleeting effect. He wondered what tales Bran had been telling to have such an effect, and resolved to visit Bran before anything else.

Lady Stark was by his bedside as Gendry knew she would be. She looked as though she had aged ten years, was thin and pale from remaining inside with her son. Several pieces of needlework sat in her lap, waiting for her diligent attention.

‘I keep telling Mother she doesn’t have to stay with me,’ Bran told Gendry after their reunion. He too, had aged many more years than had passed, but in his wisdom more than his now-broken body. ‘I will not move any time soon, after all.’

‘And I have told you in return that you do not order your mother around.’

‘A request, Mother, not an order.’ Bran rolled his eyes at Gendry. ‘I am very glad to see you, Gendry.’

‘And I you.’ In truth, he had not seen much of Bran at Winterfell, but apparently the times they had spent playing in the woods and when Gendry had attended lessons with him had had a deeper effect on the younger Stark boy than he realised.

‘What happened?’ he dared asked. 

Bran’s eyes closed. ‘I don’t remember. I was just… climbing.’

‘He cannot remember,’ Catelyn snapped. ‘Do not ask again.’

‘My apologies, my lady. I would not cause you pain.’ Gendry rose up. ‘I must attend to the King now. I have put him off long enough.’

‘You came here first?’ Bran’s eyes shone just as Rickon’s had. ‘Thank you!’

‘It was nothing, Bran.’

Bran’s response suggested otherwise and Gendry thought he was probably both lonely and bored up in his dark room in the Tower of the Hand.

‘My Lady, I hope to see you at the feast later?’

Lady Stark continued her work. ‘I will likely not attend.’

‘That is a shame.’

‘My place is here.’

‘You should go, Mother,’ Bran told her. ‘It will be taken as an insult against Gendry if you don’t.’

‘I will consider it,’ she amended, but remained neutral, not willing. ‘You should away, Gendry- Your Grace. The King is surely waiting for you.’

 

*


	8. Small Council

The cavernous Great Hall was packed when Gendry arrived. The noise of hundreds of voices all seeking to be heard in one way or another was such that Gendry was instantly nostalgic for the racket of hammer against steel in the forge.

Across the expanse, Gendry could see the King sat on the Iron Throne as he held court listening to various complaints and grievances, though he seemed to have little patience for any. Gendry watched unnoticed as the king listened briefly then bellowed commands and judgements with minimal consideration.

Jory Cassell was once again the man to find Gendry, and nudged him forward through the crowd, at which point the bored King noticed the new arrival. He slapped his huge hands together twice and sat up straight for the first time.

‘Aha! You’re here at last, my boy!’ he yelled. ‘Come closer!’

The assembled voices rose up into a roar of confusion and curiosity. Gendry approached as instructed, his legs weaker the closer he got to the Iron Throne. He had heard so much of the Throne, knew so much had been done in years past to gain control of it. To see it up close was unnerving. To see his own father sat on it was something else entirely.

As if reading that thought, Robert Baratheon rose to his feet with only the slightest wobble. ‘My lords, ladies and everyone else! This is my son, my legitimised son and the heir to this very throne!’

A moment of stunned silence passed before the noise returned even louder. Gendry’s face burned hot as hundreds of suspicious, curious and envious gazes turned on him. From his place next to the Iron Throne, Lord Stark nodded his reassurance.

‘Where has he been all this time, Your Grace?’ one voice called out, somehow cutting across the din.

‘My boy has been fostered at Winterfell, by the Hand of the King himself. He was kept there for his safety which in the light of certain events seems to have been the wisest choice I ever made!’

The wisest choice Lord Arryn ever made , Gendry thought bitterly. He stared at his father and felt nothing but disdain. The man was a wreck: fat, red-faced from drink and otherwise dissipated through his excesses.

This was not the Robert Baratheon who bested Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident, that much Gendry knew. His focus shifted to Ned Stark nearby and he knew who he’d rather take as his role model.

‘After the terrible tragedy which befell House Baratheon,’ the King continued. ‘I knew that I could call upon my beloved  eldest  son Gendry. His mother was a dear, lovely woman who brought me much comfort during a time of great and powerful grief. Only the promise made to my now late, lamented wife prevented me marrying her as I would have wished - in the absence of my true partner in life, may the gods keep her.’

Gendry fought the urge to vomit. Lies. All lies, but the crowd seemed quite satisfied with the explanation.

The King was not finished: ‘I will host a tourney in my son’s honour! What was lost is now found!’

Gendry looked around. Stark looked irritated. Several others of the Small Council smiled pleasantly, insincerely. A young man on the Council bore such a strong resemblance to the King that Gendry assumed him to be the youngest of the Baratheon brothers, Renly. His smile was playful and when he caught Gendry’s eye, he winked.

Gendry then turned his attention to the assemblage: at the front of the crowd stood an incredibly beautiful young woman wearing a dress which hardly qualified as such, but what little fabric did exist was woven in an intricate floral pattern: surely a Tyrell. She pouted, and then smiled at Gendry when she felt him looking at him. Something stirred within him, but he dismissed it and was distracted when people began to crowd him, eager to shake his hand or introduce themselves.

He was the most popular person in the seven kingdoms and beyond. He wished he was in Winterfell again…

Above the crowding heads, he spotted Tyrion stood a distance away. He had changed into suitable mourning attire but waved jovially at him.

After a moment, a way was cleared for King Robert to approach and give his son a tight, wine-soaked embrace.

‘My son! You are returned to me at long last!’ he shouted, almost directly into Gendry’s ear and it took all his effort not to grimace. ‘Out of sadness comes something good! Out of our darkest moment comes a sliver of light! And now, I am eager to be reunited with my son… come, Gendry.’

The King swept - on remarkably steady feet given his level of inebriation - out of the Great Hall and it was all Gendry could do to follow.

The King strode to his apartments, dismissed his guards and slumped down in a chair. ‘Gods, that’s bloody exhausting. I don’t envy you this job when I am gone.’

Gendry felt he actually  saw the King shed what little monarchical gravitas he had, as though it were a cloak or mask he wore for the people. What was the truth and who was Robert Baratheon?

The man in front of him now didn’t seem half so big, half so strong.

‘Are you well, Your Grace?’

‘Your Grace? What’s that? I’m your father, boy! Call me as such.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And sit down. Have a glass of something.’ He waved at the side table that looked ready to collapse under the weight of so many bottles of assorted drinks from across the known world.

‘Yes, Father. Thank you.’ Gendry sat but did not imbibe.

‘Ned said I should apologise for dragging you away from Winterfell.’

‘You do not need-’

‘That’s what I said. Your place is here with me now you’ve done your learning! You look the lordling now, smith!’ Robert laughed, then sobered. ‘I would not wish this on you, lad. Not for all the gold dragons Tywin Lannister might shit out. No… I did not want this for you. I had… I thought perhaps you might suit Storm’s End when Renly dies.’

‘Your brother-’

‘My brother will be the last of his line.’ Robert chuckled at Gendry’s confusion. ‘He prefers the company of men, and you don’t get children that way! He thought he’d have to marry some poor girl, so in you we had a perfect solution. Until…’

‘Until the fire.’

‘Aye. The  fire .’

‘What happened, Your- Father?’

‘A fire is what happened. Anything else is irrelevant. But I can’t say I’m sorry that bitch is dead, or her children-’

‘Her?’

‘Well, they weren’t bloody well mine, that’s for certain!’

‘I don’t-’

‘The seed is strong! The seed is bloody strong!’ Robert got up and grabbed a bottle from the assortment. He consumed it in a single swallow. For a moment his eyes were glassy and unfocused, but he came back. ‘Do you know how many children I’ve fathered?’

‘No.’

‘Sixteen, by Jon Arryn’s reckoning! Sixteen, and every one of them had the Baratheon look about them! Dark of hair and blue of eye! The seed is bloody strong!’ Robert’s chest puffed proudly. ‘And prolific, of course.’

‘But your children by the Queen-’

‘Blond! All blond, measly things! Jon had the right of it. In all the times a Baratheon lay with a Lannister, any child bore  our looks. THE SEED IS BLOODY STRONG and OURS IS THE FURY!’

Gendry held his breath a moment and waited to see what the King would do. After a moment’s pause, the King slumped down on his bed and flopped back.

‘She… she betrayed me. I offered her my heart and my soul and she left me for that blond bastard.’

‘Which blond-’

He growled, the sound becoming a name ground out through a bitter grimace: ‘Rhaegar Targaryen!’

‘Oh.’ Gendry now understand the King was no longer speaking of Cersei, but an older betrayal. ‘Lyanna Stark was kidnapped-’

‘She went of her own accord!’ Robert’s voice broke. ‘She never loved me as I loved her. I loved her, I loved her with all my heart and soul and she went with  him …’

Gendry stayed silent. His father had abandoned his anger with Cersei Lannister for morose recollections. He had assumed the king would be angry at being cuckolded by his wife, but he had not figured on the pain being deeper, older.

The King suddenly sobbed once: ‘we would’ve been happy, Lya and I. I would have made her happy in the end. If only she’d… I tried to be a good lad but I had appetites she didn’t understand. I tried to tell her it made no difference to my love for her. I would’ve been a good husband.’

Gendry doubted that, somehow. Even he knew that Robert Baratheon had been conquering women since long before Lyanna Stark’s “kidnapping”. Somehow he was not surprised to learn that Lyanna had apparently gone with the dragon by choice. He listened to his father ramble a little longer. When he fell silent, Gendry saw he had fallen asleep.

He summoned the King’s squire and then went to the Hand’s solar. The relief he felt upon being granted entrance to the sanctuary could not be understated. Lord Stark read from a tall stack of parchments in the early evening light pouring through the windows.

‘Are you busy, my lord?’

‘Not too busy for you, Gendry. You look… pained.’

‘I have been with my father.’

‘Ah.’ Ned sighed. ‘He is as my brother but… yes. I understand your meaning.’

‘He said Lyanna left him.’

Ned put the papers down and turned his sad grey eyes towards Gendry. ‘I did not know it when we marched to war, but yes, she did. Why does this matter now?’

‘I think… how did my father react to the proof that the Queen had been unfaithful?’

‘Not well. When we returned here, we discovered that Jon Arryn - gods rest his brave soul - had compiled a great trove of evidence against her.’

‘Is that when the other bastards started to go missing?’

‘No… that was sooner. Not long after you came to Winterfell. Arryn supposed that your appearance here sparked something off in someone. The Queen. We discovered Janos Slynt had been sent to dispose of them. He was beheaded for the murder of an infant… his head is still at Traitor’s Gate.’

‘The fire-’ Gendry paused. ‘Was it the Queen or… was it my father?’

Ned chuckled. He actually laughed. ‘You don’t know Robert well I know, but do you really think he’d murder them that way?’

‘No…’

‘Yours is the fury, Gendry. He was preparing to have the Queen arrested, tried and executed. Why do you think The King’s Justice was there?’

‘I wasn’t-’

‘The Holdfast was surrounded. There was a skirmish with Lannister men and when we prevailed, she set the fire. What you don’t know is that first, she poisoned the children and herself. The fire didn’t kill them, Cersei Lannister did.’

‘Why the fire then?’

Ned sighed. ‘I’m not sure, but possibly to hide the evidence.’

‘What evidence?’

‘That the only person who could possibly have fathered her children was her own twin brother.’

‘The Kingslayer?’

‘Indeed.’

‘But that’s-’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose… the Targaryens did it…’

‘Still not right, lad.’

‘No, but…’ Gendry rubbed his face, suddenly tired. ‘She killed her own children?’

‘Yes.’

‘And my father is taking full advantage of it?’

‘He doesn’t have to admit to the world that he was cuckolded by the queen and her brother. I think he was actually happy to see them go up in flames.’ Ned grimaced. ‘Hardly his finest moment.’

‘He doesn’t have many of those.’

‘The worst thing that ever happened to Robert Baratheon was becoming King. Know that, Gendry.’

‘Neither of you are recommending the job to me, you know.’

‘I know. But you’re not like him. You have it in you to be a good ruler, a just one. A very good King.’

‘And if I don’t want to be?’

‘Then I suspect the other option is a war.’

‘Oh.’

‘Aye. What has history taught us? That a secure line of succession is more than just “who’s next?” It’s stability, prosperity, security. Without you, who is there?’

‘Another of his bastards?’

‘Most of them are dead or frankly, unsuitable.’

‘His brother?’

‘Stannis? A more dour, humourless man you’ll never meet. He would take the throne but he couldn’t hold it. And from there… anyone with half a wish would argue they had a claim and then…’

‘That’s how wars start.’

‘Aye.’

‘We could do away with kings completely.’

‘And replace it with what?’

‘I don’t know… something better?’

‘Well once you think of it, you just let me know what that better thing is.’ Ned chuckled again, disbelieving.

Gendry sighed. ‘How did this happen?’

‘The gods work in mysterious ways. I don’t envy you but… you can do it. I will help you and well… your father has many years ahead of him yet.’

‘Not the way he’s living, he doesn’t.’

‘Well, between us you and I will have to change that. Perhaps with Cersei Lannister gone, he will stop drinking quite so much.’

‘You think?’

‘I’m not hopeful, no…’ Ned took a deep breath. ‘And now I’ve got yet another expensive tourney to arrange. Your father must think gold grows on trees the way he spends it.’

‘The King’s job is to spend money; the Hand’s is to find it.’

‘Gendry, will you do me a favour?’

‘Of course, my lord. What?’

The wrinkles around Ned’s eyes creased as a wry smile slid onto his face. ‘If I am still Hand when you become King… dismiss me immediately. Let me go home.’

‘You have my word… as long as you help me replace the irreplaceable.’

‘Oh gods, don’t you start too… you sound just like him.’

Gendry grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. This time.’

*

Gendry’s first week passed quickly thanks to the many introductions, tours and meetings he was scheduled to take. He met with representatives from almost all the great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms and although Lord Stark had taught him well, it was difficult to keep track of everything and everyone.

He also tried to spend at least part of his day in the training yard to take advantage of the best teachers in Westeros for archery, sword and other fighting skills. He promised himself an hour every evening with something instructional or educational to read and so found that each night he went to sleep absolutely exhausted.

He was invited to his first Small Council meeting on the fifth day. He was summoned to the chamber by his father but upon arriving found everyone  but King Robert present. The council members devoted their attentions - in their various ways - to their new prince.

The Hand welcomed him with his usual quiet sincerity and a mumbled ‘you’ll be fine, lad.’

Grand Maester Pycelle was a doddery old fellow weighted down by his heavy chain. In his obsequiousness, Gendry could not like him.

Renly was a welcome sight: he had hosted Gendry at dinner on his second night at the castle and proved a witty, light-hearted man who refused to be called “uncle” on account of being only a few years older than his nephew. Quite why he had been made Master of Laws however, remained a mystery to Gendry.

Stannis was the opposite of Renly - cold and barely responsive to anything Gendry might say. He found he could respect the man’s gravitas and dedication to his duties but he couldn’t like him but suspected his uncle did not wish to be liked. He did, however, have bitterness in his being that Gendry found worrisome. Whether it was bitterness towards him specifically or some larger perceived injustice, he had yet to establish.

He hated Petyr Baelish on sight. It helped of course that he had Ned Stark’s opinion in advance - not good - but the Master of Coin had tried too hard to prove how totally harmless and unassuming he was.

‘Your Grace,’ Baelish greeted him with a flourishing bow. ‘I am pleased to meet you at last. I have experience of moving from a low to a high position. I did not begin quite so low or rise so high-’ His chuckle was self-effacing ‘-but you are a prince now and I am at your service in whatever way you would require of me.’

‘I thank you, my lord.’ Gendry nodded and smiled a little. ‘I admit this is all very new to me.’

‘If I may give you one piece of advice, Your Grace: trust no one.’

This was at least good advice. From the Master of Whisperers, he received very little but niceties and a long, penetrating stare. It wasn’t that he was rude, only contemplative.

The chair of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was the only unoccupied chair except the King’s. Before the meeting began, the Grand Maester suggested a brief prayer to the Seven for the health of Ser Barristan.

‘I would like to propose a toast,’ Baelish added. ‘I think it only fitting that we welcome our new prince to this council.’

Gendry hoped his opinion of the way Baelish kept saying “new” did not show on his face. ‘Thank you, m’- my lord, but it is not necessary.’

Renly raised his glass. ‘Not necessary, no, but we should like to do it just the same. Welcome, Prince Gendry!’

The rest of the council echoed him.

‘Now, to business,’ Stark said. ‘This tourney the King has prised will be more expense we can ill-afford.’

‘Ordinarily I would suggest we appeal to the generosity of Casterly Rock, but I think that would be in bad taste, don’t you?’

Stark’s expression barely changed but Gendry could see that he would happily have punched the other man in the face in that moment. ‘Quite. We have to both raise the funds to host the event and find a victor’s purse and our coffers are already… challenged.’

‘It is the Master of Coin’s job to… find the coin,’ Varys replied, voice honeyed and seductive. ‘I know you are up to the… challenge.’

‘As you  never are, my friend.’

Varys smiled tightly and turned his attention to Gendry. ‘He means that I am a eunuch, Your Grace, a fact he  brings up so often that I have to wonder at his fixation.’

‘If we could bring your ridiculous bickering to an early close this time,’ Stannis snapped. ‘I’m sure we all have better things to be doing with our time.’

‘Attending charm school?’ Renly asked pleasantly. ‘I have little to report for my part.’

‘You would have to do some work to be able to report,’ his brother retorted. ‘The repairs I mentioned last time are underway, but there are structural issues with the hull of the Lady of The Lake. And the training of the latest influx of recruits is-’

Renly mimicked snoring.

‘Grow up, Renly.’

‘I have places to be.’

‘Anyone we know?’ Baelish asked.

‘What an excellent example you are all setting for the young prince,’ Pycelle cut across the impending argument. ‘Might we continue with the dignity expected of the King’s councillors?’

With those preliminaries finally completed, Gendry settled back to listen to the business of running a kingdom and quickly discovered exactly why his father hadn’t rushed to attend. It was duller even that the trivia he’d heard the King listening to during the court session.

By the end of the meeting, Gendry was beginning to understand why Robert was so constantly drunk. Few decisions had actually been made, let alone implemented and the sniping between the councillors dragged the meeting out far beyond necessary.

A thought suddenly occurred to him: He was a prince and could leave any time he wanted. He stood up. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

He refused to look back as he left the room.

*

Rain fell hard on King’s Landing that afternoon and so Gendry was forced to remain under cover as he walked off his frustrations and extra energy. It was a good chance to explore the Red Keep further so he stormed down corridors and passageways he had not seen before.

If this really was to be one day, he wanted to know it as well as he could. He wanted to know its secrets-

‘OW!’

Gendry was only dimly aware of the figure that crashed into him once he was sprawled on the ground.

‘Don’t you look where you’re going?’

Dazed, he looked up and found himself staring up at a girl, tousled-haired and in ratty clothes.

It couldn’t be anyone else.

‘Arya?’

 


	9. Fury & Revenge

The collision in a dark, dank, secluded cellar passageway was the first time Gendry had seen Arya Stark since his return to King’s Landing.

Lord Stark had made a few odd remarks about her absence from meals and other public events that had piqued Gendry’s curiosity but in truth, the location of the Hand’s youngest daughter was not a priority for him.

As expected, she had grown somewhat since he’d last seen her: her twelfth name day was coming up soon. She was still clearly a child but was taller and leaner than he remembered.

It was more than that. The Arya he remembered was always on the edge of a temper tantrum, ready to kick off at the slightest provocation. This Arya was not serene but she was more controlled, just as her breeches and shirt were neat and tidy and her long hair was held back in a firm, simple ponytail.

She held a hand out to help him up. ‘Is this treason? Knocking down the C rown Prince? ’

‘Your secret is safe with me, m’lady. And the other one.’

‘Other one?’

‘A person doesn’t normally meet a fine lady in a corridor such as this.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not a fine lady.’

‘What are you doing down here?’

‘What are  you ? Crown Princes don’t belong down here either!’ The edges of her temper rippled.

‘I should know the place I’ll be ruling, don’t you think?’

She snorted. ‘You. Ruling. That’s funny.’

‘It’s hilarious, but you still haven’t answered my question.’

‘It’s nothing much.’

‘No?’

‘I was… chasing a cat.’

‘For any reason?’

‘No.’

‘You answered very quickly, m’lady. If I were a suspicious fellow I might think you were hiding something from me.’

‘Not from  you ,’ she mumbled.

‘No? Where have you been for the last week, anyway?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘Quick again.’

‘I’m…’ she sighed. ‘I’m  training .’

‘To do what?’

‘Water dancing.’

‘And that necessitates you scurrying about the cellars?’

‘Yes,’ she huffed at him, suddenly childlike again. ‘And anyway, you hear a lot of interesting things down here.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Once a few weeks ago, I heard talking.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Someone talking about a fire.’

‘There was a huge fire. You might have heard about it.’

‘This was  before the fire.’ Her smirk was insufferably smug.

‘What? Who was it? What did they say?’

‘I don’t know who it was. Two men. They were walking while I was chasing cats and I heard one say that fire… what was it? Fire burns sins away. That was it.’

‘And that was before the fire that killed the Queen and her children?’

‘Yes. I have to go. Syrio will kill me if I’m late back. But you didn’t see me-’

‘See you where?’

Arya’s relieved smile was bright and transformed her face into something unexpectedly beautiful. ‘Thank you, Gendry!’

She ran off into the darkness. He listened to her receding footsteps before returning to fresh air and sunlight.

 

*

 

Lord Stark invited Gendry to dinner that evening, a private family meal taken in Bran’s room so that all could attend. All  could attend, but Arya did not.

Bran’s chambers were a welcome slice of the North after the show and glitter e

Sansa had blossomed since arriving in King’s Landing, was now an astonishingly beautiful young woman of fourteen already touted as the great beauty of her generation.

She acted as hostess, although it was unclear whether this was to build up her experience or because Lady Stark had no inclination to do anything but fuss over Bran, whether he wanted her to or not.

‘Would you like some more wine, Your Grace?’ Sansa was always softly spoken but her voice was now softened into a much more South-leaning accent.

‘I’m fine for now, thank you Lady Sansa.’

She returned to her seat and sat with her gaze fixed firmly on her plate, from which she barely picked her food.

Conversation was mostly provided by Rickon’s chatter and Bran’s thoughtful observations. Ned Stark looked lost in thought and Gendry did not like to disturb him.

Sansa did not say much, but when questioned provided suitably polite answers. When she replied to one question of Bran’s with a reference to the Queen, Gendry took the opportunity.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, my lady. I understand the Queen was close with you.’

To his surprise, Sansa’s eyes narrowed for a second. ‘She was very kind to me.’ A lie.

Gendry was confused. ‘And Prince Joff-’

Sansa’s fork clattered to the plate. She flushed red and refused to look up.

‘My apologies, my lady. I know you cared-’

‘Prince Joffrey was most attentive.’

Gendry caught Lord Stark’s eye: what had he missed? He tried to change the subject.

‘How is Arya, Lord Stark? I have not yet seen her.’

‘Ah, Arya.’ Ned smiled but his wife sighed huffily, just as Arya had earlier. ‘She is very busy with studies at present.’

‘I see.’

Lady Stark muttered something which Ned caught and frowned at.

‘I thought I might take Rickon on an adventure into the kings wood soon, if you have no objections my lord.’ Gendry had not intended to make the offer in that exact way, but he was scrabbling to find some subject that would not cause an issue. ‘We both need to work off some of our energy, I think.’

Ned and Rickon grinned identically at him.

‘If my lady has no objection.’

‘I do not, my Lord. It will do Rickon and his wolf good, and I am sure Prince Gendry will take good care of him.’

‘Indeed, my lady. He is as a brother to me, as you know.’

‘Very well.’

‘When can we go?’ Rickon asked, bouncing in his chair.

‘Tomorrow afternoon?’

Rickon squealed his delight, and the awkwardness was dispelled - for now.

 

*

 

The rain of the previous day was a genuine storm when |Gendry awoke the next morning. The storm had everyone edgy and irritable, not least Rickon Stark. The boy was inconsolable at not being able to run around the woods with his wolf. The wolf itself had been chained up in the royal stables but his whines could be heard throughout the Keep. Arya’s wolf had not returned to her but Gendry thought he heard a wolf somewhere in the distance responding to Shaggydog.

He was summoned to the King’s chambers and found his father already drunk, belligerent and yelling about something to Lord Stark

‘And another thing-’

‘Your Grace-’

‘All those people didn’t die so that the dragon bitch can just waltz back here! Ah, Gendry!’ the King rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘You settle this!’

‘What am I settling?’

‘We got word that Daenerys Targaryen just married a Dothraki war lord!’

It was left to Ned Stark to provide a full translation and details: ‘Her brother sold her to one of the most feared Khals across the Narrow Sea and-’

‘He’ll split her in two!’

‘Robert, please!’ Ned barked.

Gendry had never seen Ned Stark so openly disrespectful of his king, and even though it was only the three of them, he felt the insult keenly.

The King threw his tankard at the fire. The alcohol spilt out and spat in the flames but the metal cup bounced back out and rolled to a stop near Gendry’s feet.

‘Her brother, inbred little shit Viserys, will use the Dothraki to try and conquer the Seven Kingdoms!’

‘The Dothraki won’t cross the Narrow Sea,’ Ned shot back. ‘You cannot seriously be suggesting that we murder a child?’

‘She’s a Targaryen!’

‘And no threat to you, Your Grace.’

Gendry watched them argue back and forth for some time. Robert was unreasonable almost to hysteria, not helped by amount of alcohol he was pouring down his throat.

‘Please stop!’ Gendry cut in. ‘You’re not getting anywhere.’

‘Don’t you talk to me that way, boy! I made you and I can unmake you! You’d be a blacksmith’s boy if it weren’t for me!’

All the tension and uncertainty Gendry had been trying to ignore since returning bubbled over into his own fury.

‘So send me back!’ he yelled back. ‘I don’t want to be king any more than  you do! I’m not a prince. I’m a blacksmith. You’re not a king, you’re a soldier.’

‘Make your point,’ Robert sneered. 

‘I didn’t ask for any of this,’ Gendry said, trying to be calm and reasoned. ‘I don’t want it. Truly, Your Grace, I don’t want to be a prince or a king. If you would wish me to return to the forge, I will do so without any bitterness or regret… but Lord Stark has taught me the importance of duty and honour, and if you need me to be here as your heir, your prince… then I will be here and I will do my best.’

Gendry picked up the fallen tankard. ‘But I will not agree to the murder of children. I will not sit silent while your Small Council bicker and run the kingdom into the ground and I will not sit and watch you kill yourself with regrets and hard drink. The decision as always, is yours, Your Grace.’ 

He bowed almost respectfully and left the King and his Hand behind in stunned silence.

 

*

 

He was not surprised to next meet Arya on a dimly lit staircase, nor that she was dressed more for fencing than needlework. That she was hanging upside down from a curtain rail was unexpected. Not surprising exactly, but unexpected.

‘Hello Gendry.’ She greeted him as though he was not a prince and she was not a young lady in a peculiar situation.

‘Do I want to know?’ he asked.

Arya actually managed to shrug upside down. She took a deep breath then crunched herself upward to fold in half and instead of hanging by her feet, was hanging by her hands.

‘May I help you down?’

‘No, thank you-’

Gendry moved to help her down before she could answer and in the confusion, they tumbled down together onto the hard stone steps.

‘I said no  thank you , stupid!’ She scrambled up onto her feet with more poise than he expected from her.

‘I apologise, my lady-’

‘Don’t call me that!’ she screeched. ‘I’m not a lady and I’m not ladylike and I’m not going to marry anyone!’

‘Methinks your anger is not with me.’ He sighed. ‘Arya, are you all right?’

‘No, I’m not!’

Gendry sat down on a step and nudged her to join him, which she did after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Tell me your woes,  Arya .’

‘I hate it here.’ Her sword-fighter’s posture collapsed and it hit him again how young she was. ‘I hate it here and Father got me my swor- water dancing lessons to make things better and it did and I’m getting to be good at it. Really, I am. Syrio says I’m not nearly as good as I think I am and he’s right of course but I’ve done really well already and Father was so proud of me-’ She stopped abruptly and he watched as she brought herself into a calmer state. ‘Mother says I’ll be married soon.’

‘You’re only young!’

‘I’m twelve tomorrow.’

‘That’s still full young, my- Arya. You won’t have to marry anyone just yet.’

‘But I will have to. She said so. Even Father… why would he let me do this if- if he was never going to let me be…’

‘Yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because he loves you. Because he loves you and wants you to be happy even for a little while. And would marrying someone be so awful?’

‘It sounds horrible. Sansa goes on and on about being married now and I just… I hate it! She can do what she likes but… I can’t. I’ll run away, I will!’

‘Arya, breathe…’

She obeyed and he watched her pull herself to serenity again, clearly something her  water dancing had taught her.

‘You are still young,’ he told her again. ‘And nobody can make you marry anyone against your will. Lord Stark is a good man and he loves you so much that he would never do anything to make you unhappy.’

‘Will you talk to him?’

‘If it comes to that, I will.’

‘You promise?’

‘Yes, but it won’t. What would you really like to do?’

‘Explore the whole world! Syrio has told me all sorts of things about Braavos and the other cities across the Narrow Sea and I would like to see it. I want to have adventures!’

He could not deny the sincere fervour that radiated from her entire being any more than he could deny that there was no place for such dreams within King’s Landing. No wonder she hated it so much.

 

*

 

Life settled down to regularity. His daily schedule was closely regimented and although he had enjoyed the serenity of routine at Winterfell, it was stifling in his father’s house.

For Robert himself, Gendry held out some hope - just a very little. The King had begun to slowly moderate his worst habits and rumour had it that he had appeared quite sober during one assembly.

Two moons passed quickly with the stresses of becoming accustomed to life at court. Gendry was at once glad and worried about how easy courtly life was: playing the game was not so terribly difficult most of the time and yet he despised himself for playing it at all.

Gendry did not see much of the king thanks to the schedule which kept him in the training yard all morning and the library all afternoon. He did get to see something of Rickon, who took to watching the training and always asking if he could join in.

While he chose to spend much of his leisure time with various members of the Stark family, he could not fail to notice that Sansa Stark was being placed next to him at dinner more often than not.

The young lady had certainly blossomed since Winterfell. She was almost as tall as he was and willowy with it. She was - Lord Baelish told him with fervent authority - the spitting imagine of her lady mother at the same age. Her long red hair was usually in an ornate Southron style but her mode of dress was still in a simple, modest Northern manner.

The clothes were almost certainly by order of her parents, for more than once he heard her speak to her fast friend Margaery Tyrell about how lovely her far more flimsy garments were, an unmistakable hint of envy present each time.

He liked Sansa just as he like Margaery, but after seeing the hungry look in Lord Tyrell’s eyes when he spoke to his daughter, Gendry realised he would have to be careful in how he spoke to any young lady.

He had not officially seen Arya very often. Her twelfth name day passed with a sweet family celebration but otherwise her public profile was far lower than that of her sister.

Officially, he kept meeting her in odd, quiet places where he went to find some measure of solitude. It was clear to him that water dancing had nothing to do with dancing as anyone else understood the word, and Arya was more than willing to show him some of what she had learnt from the mysterious Syrio Forel.

He had never seen swordplay like it and asked the girl - he kept forgetting how much younger than he she really was, for gone was the immature brat of Winterfell and in her place a strangely mature creature whose aims seemed to be serenity and wisdom. Most of the time, anyway.

‘Don’t do that, stupid!’ she barked as she tried, in vain it had to be said, to teach him a particularly graceful turn. He was not by nature particularly graceful and his big feet were less well suited to the light movements than hers. ‘You don’t listen to anything I say!’

‘I  do ,’ he retorted through gritted teeth. ‘Putting it into practice is a different matter.’

‘Try harder.’

‘I am trying!’

‘I give up!’ She huffed a couple of times and sat down on the cold stone floor. ‘You should stay with your hammer.’

‘I will.’

‘At the tourney, you’ll be better than anyone with that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve seen you training.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘That’s because I was invisible, stupid.’

‘Can’t be invisible.’

‘Can.’

Gendry rolled his eyes and reminded herself that she was still very young and still  Arya , no matter how much serenity she might achieve.

 

*

 

The Tourney Of The Crown Prince was held three moons after his return. Gendry had trained constantly to reach a standard where he could compete himself with some chance of success but he was still nervous when his father arrived in his tent as he was getting himself ready.

At first he assumed that Robert had come to give him some support but to his surprise, the King beckoned his squire in.

‘Father?’ he asked. ‘You’re not- you’re not going to fight, are you?’

‘And why not? You think this old man too weak, too slow, too gone to seed?’

‘No, but-’ Gendry stopped and really  looked at Robert for the first time in a while.

It was astonishing. The king looked healthier than he had for a long time: clear and bright of eye, straight-backed and ready for anything. He had slimmed down enough that he appeared to be “broad” and “stocky” rather than obese.

‘They’ll all come after you, Father.’

‘Of course they will!’ Robert boomed as his squire slid the leather jerkin onto his shoulders. ‘And I shall be ready. It has been far, far too long since Robert Baratheon took on all-comers and I’m ready. Oh, by the gods I’m ready.’

Gendry began to remove his own armour. ‘I cannot compete directly against you, Father. I won’t.’

‘Of course you can! In fact, together we’ll take the lot of them.’

This was a point. Gendry might have to actively defend the King from some of those who had been angered in recent times. The King’s new-found interest in his kingdom’s welfare had irritated some of the lords who had used his apathy to their own ends.

To mention that there would be at least one Lannister in the melee. Although the rumours of Robert’s possible involvement in the fire had never gained ground, the lions were still cold towards the Stag King. Gendry continued to prepare for battle.

 

*

 

Although the Hand of the King had kept the tourney as budget-friendly as he could, it was still quite a show. Many of the entertainers had been persuaded to perform for nothing more than the honour of doing so for the King and they filled the tourney-grounds.

The sun shone brightly on the tourney and the various lords and ladies of Court assembled in the terraces, shielded from the sun by brightly coloured silk parasols.

The tourney was to open with the melee and all were agog with excitement to see Prince Gendry in action for the first time. The war hammer Mott gave him sat heavy in his grip as he waited and watched the others who would be there. 

Representatives from many minor houses hoped to make a mark, while almost all the major houses except the Starks had a proverbial horse in the race.

‘I don’t compete in tourneys,’ Ned had told him the night before. ‘Starks do not fight for gold, nor for entertainment.’

‘I understand, my lord.’

‘But mostly - and mark this carefully - should I fight a man for real, I don’t want him to know my weaknesses beforehand. Do not give this  playing  your all.’

Gendry hadn’t thought a melee much like “playing” but he took the point. ‘I shan’t, my lord.’

Now, Gendry watched as pretty Lancel Lannister entered the arena with two Freys, a Kettleblack and that Osney fellow… closely followed by Jaime Lannister.

The entrance of the white cloak sent thrilled ripples of chatter through the crowds.

Jaime Lannister had hardly been seen since the fire. He had been very badly hurt but nobody seemed to know the details. Now they did. He limped a little, favouring his left side. He had lost a good deal of weight during his sickness. Most of all, the face which had enchanted a generation was ruined: half his face destroyed by ugly red scribbles of burn scarring, while chunks of his famed golden hair had been burned away.

‘He looks like the Hound!’ Gendry heard one girl giggle.

The burns were no longer fresh but were not healed, still angrily red.

‘Are you entering the Lists, my lord?’ someone asked.

Jaime shook his head. ‘Only the melee.’

‘Good luck to you.’

‘I don’t need luck.’ Jaime’s gaze locked with Gendry’s, and the prince knew without a doubt that he  would have to protect his father from one specific Lannister.

The blazing hatred in Jaime’s eyes was hotter than the fire which had killed the knight’s sister, niece and nephews. That hate was carrying him onwards into a battle he was not yet fit to take on but would not be dissuaded from.

The competitors gathered and the Tourney-master yelled out the rules. Namely it seemed that there were no rules except “don’t actually kill anyone” and even that was more request than requirement.

Gendry gave his hammer a quick swing, took a deep breath and entered the madness.

The melee was fast, chaotic and he realised within moments that there was no true way to know who he was competing against, only that he had no choice. He took down several callow youths with a single swing of his hammer back and forth which caused the crowds to gasp approvingly.

Quick though it certainly was, there were really two parts to the melee: the first removing the weak and inferior; the second a far more intense competition between the strong and superior.

Lancel and several other young Lannisters had bowed out in that first period but Jaime remained tall and defiant despite being in demonstrable agony. 

The King was of course still upright and battling, one of the few obvious targets in his ornate, regal armour.

Gendry moved through the chaos to take up a position near his father and was just in time: as he moved to cover the King’s right flank, Jaime Lannister struck.

The Kingslayer’s sword rose high and fell in a smooth arc which anyone who knew fighting techniques would recognise as a killing blow. The king was busy foiling a parry from Beric Dondarrion and did not see. 

Gendry spun on his heels in the move Arya had tried to show him. It was not poised and he nearly stumbled, but it was effective enough to grant him the position to attack.

He swung his hammer arm back and with an Almighty blow, sent it crashing into Lannister’s lion-crested breastplate.

Jaime Lannister, the greatest knight of his generation, seemed to freeze for a second before flying backwards. He slammed into the ground completely winded. His sword lay in the sand, quite lost. The breastplate was mangled badly, the lion distorted and bent.

Gendry stared down at his foe for a moment and saw the blazing hate turn onto him. He had made a sworn enemy for two reasons: he had felled the great knight in public and prevented what he saw as his revenge. 

Jaime could not stand without assistance, quite defeated for now. Gendry turned his attention to the remaining fighters - barely half a dozen men still stood and none seemed hells-bent on regicide at present.

Singers were already composing songs about the magnificent sight of the King and Prince fighting side by side, their war hammers swinging in beautiful unison. Nobody stood a chance against them.

It was not long until the crowd, sat in amazed silence, watched as only two men remained: King Robert, first of his name, and his heir.

A moment’s pause as they took their breath.

‘I won’t fight you, Father.’

The King paused. ‘I cannot look weak. I must-’

He raised his hammer but before he could strike, Gendry fell to his knees.

‘I surrender to you, my king.’

Their audience were seized with some form of collective euphoria which bordered on mass hysteria. The King hauled Gendry to his feet and yelled a brief speech about the future of Westeros being secure with the Baratheons.

Gendry remembered little of the next few minutes until he was back in his tent, quite alone but for the squire. All he could think of was Jaime Lannister and the look on his face.

 

*

 


	10. Loose Lips

Gendry found the jousting less interesting to watch than expected. The majority of the time was spent waiting for the brief joust. The whole thing was designed to provide just enough diversion from the mingling, politicking and intriguing that the Court so loved.

He had heard more gossip on the first afternoon of the Tourney than in his entire life previously and cared for none of it.

Worse, it was an excuse for every eligible young woman in the city to try to catch his attention. By the time the night’s feast began he was utterly exhausted.

Music played and wine flowed generously. Servants brought out tray after tray of rich and exotic foods to keep the great lords and ladies satisfied.

As everyone else stuffed themselves with course after course, he slipped closer and closer towards a social coma.

To his left, the Starks seemed to enjoy themselves well enough but in a quiet sort of way. To his right, his father was enjoying himself in a much noisier way.

To the untrained eye, the King was much as he’d always been: drinking long, eating large and flirting with every pretty girl in sight. 

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Lord Stark muttered to Gendry after one particularly loud burst of laughter. ‘He’s far more in control than he looks.’

‘So why-’

‘What the late Queen used to call the “game of thrones”,’ he said. ‘It would be too strange if he was to behave himself. People would talk.’

Gendry cast a sideways glance at his father and saw Margaery Tyrell pour him another glass of Donnish red. She laughed at whatever he had just said.

‘When may I leave?’ he asked Lord Stark, who stifled a smile.

‘Not for at least another hour, I’m afraid.’

Whatever variation of “crestfallen” Gendry now wore made Stark chuckle.

‘With power comes responsibility,’ Gendry muttered.

‘Aye.’ Stark’s attention was taken by someone else and Gendry was left once more to observe the goings-on around him.

It was madness. The night had gone beyond the point of most guests being “merry” and now most were so drunk that they were falling asleep, starting fights or falling over, depending on their persuasion in that regard.

There was no responsibility in the world to make him stand it a second longer.

As he moved to leave, he caught his father’s eye. Robert nodded and did not object.

Gendry soaked in the gorgeous quiet of his own bedchamber. No sound but that of his manservant Gorman in the next room tidying up the garments the prince had immediately divested himself of.

He felt his eyes flutter closed. He was tired and still quite sore from the melee and despite being clad in no more than his small clothes, he began to drift off into sleep.

He dreamt of voices nearby, whispering and plotting. He awoke suddenly to dark silence and stillness. His breathing was rapid and a frigid chill ran down his spine. It looked and sounded like nobody was there and yet he did not feel alone.

Wide awake and feeling unlikely to get back to sleep now, Gendry slid off the bed, shivering from the cold. He groped around and found his robe on the chair where Gorman had left it out for him.

‘Who’s there?’ he asked softly. No response, but he was certain that someone was - or at least had been - there.

He opened the door and peeked out into the hallway. No one and nothing but the dim light of a flickering wall sconce. He shut the door silently and paced his room for a moment.

The gentle breeze ruffled his hair and -

‘What bloody breeze?’ he muttered. He’d commanded German to close the windows tight and the man had, so where was the breeze coming from?

He would not have noticed if he hadn’t been looking but there was now a perfectly straight crack in his bedroom wall all the way from ceiling to floor: a secret door not fully closed.

‘What in all seven heavens and hells is that, exactly?’ he wondered aloud, voice comforting in the now-eerie silence.

It was too late and he was too tired to explore. As a precaution against the door closing again, he wedged some paper underneath and hoped he wouldn’t forget it by the time he woke up again.

 

*

 

Gendry had no chance of actually forgetting the door but discovered that someone - presumably his late night visitor - removed the paper and closed it at some point while he rested.

Gorman was ready with breakfast - a rather fine kedgeree - and had a set of clothes ready for him.

‘There’s plenty of time until the tourney begins, Your Grace.’ Gorman chuckled. ‘I think you may be one of the few people awake already.’

‘I can imagine,’ Gendry shovelled his breakfast with graceless speed and could hear Maester Luwin scolding him about it all the way from Winterfell.

It suited his purposes to rise before most others, so he might investigate unnoticed. Gorman left him once he was dressed - Gendry didn't think he’d ever get used to being helped to dress - and he took his chance.

The door was difficult to find when it was closed but the night’s breeze gave him an idea how to find it. Then it was just a case of opening the bloody thing. The wall sconce was ever so slightly wonky…

There was a satisfying metal click as he pulled the sconce away from the wall and the door swung open to reveal a narrow passageway leading towards the King’s Chambers.

Armed with a torch in one hand and a small dagger in the other, Gendry went in. He didn’t have to walk sideways but it was a tight fit.

He could hear his father’s voice booming from his bedchamber: ‘Come here, lass and I’ll show you my great war hammer!’

He grimaced at hearing it and even more when he reached a small grille in the wall which gave him unrestricted hidden view into the King’s bedroom. The sight of King Robert’s bare and hairy backside as he stood at the end of his bed was not easily forgotten. Gendry’s only curiosity about the woman, who was hidden by the aforementioned arse. He didn’t bother waiting around to find out.

The passageway clearly gave access to the most private areas of the royal apartments and anyone who knew about it would be able to spy on the residents of the Keep at the times they believed themselves most secure.

Gendry continued along the passageway, which just kept going and going. It provided several spots to perfectly observe the activities in the Queen’s Ballroom, in every guest room in the Keep and all the way back to Gendry’s rooms.

Between the Prince’s and King’s chambers there was also a handy ladder down he’d not spotted first time, that no doubt leading to similar passages through the rest of the Holdfast and the rest of the entire castle.

Absolutely consumed by curiosity, Gendry was about to climb down the ladder when he heard the echoing voice of Gorman wondering where he was.

‘You’ll be late for the Tourney, Your Grace!’ he called out so loudly that for a second Gendry worried that his servant knew where he was. He sighed with relief as he looked through a peephole - Gorman was stood at the door of the bedchamber, discreetly not entering without permission.

Within moments Gendry was at that door as if nothing was amiss. ‘Thank you Gorman.’

‘You are rather dusty, Your Grace. Allow me…’

Dusted off, Gendry bolted out of his apartments and onto a horse to reach the tourney grounds on time - more or less.

‘Ah, there’s my lad!’ King Robert boomed from his temporary throne. ‘Up all night with a fair lass, I expect!’

Gendry took his seat beside the king in silence and said few words all day. Curiosity about the passage now sated, his mind had turned to  who had been in his room and  why . He was suspicious of everyone and felt so on edge that when Arya Stark popped up beside him to ask if he wanted a lemon cake, he barked at her to go away.

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Fine! I should have let Sansa bring them like she wanted to!’

‘What?’

‘Sansa wanted to bring the cakes to you but I said I was your friend and I could do it and then- never mind, stupid!’

The King laughed. ‘Arya Stark, you never fail to amuse this old man. Come, sit beside me. Move, Tyrell!’

Mace Tyrell slumped down off the seat and bowed obsequiously before retreating to his House’s seating, where Lady Olenna made some remark which made her son blush and her granddaughter smile.

King Robert and Arya kept up a steady stream of chatter: they had become friends of a curious sort since her arrival in Winterfell. He liked to indulge her open, carefree and blunt manner while she loved to be indulged, it seemed.

Listening to them, Gendry discovered yet more about Arya: she was far cleverer than he’d thought. He knew she was  bright of course, but she was paying more attention in lessons than he realised, for this twelve year old had as much insight and grasp of politics as anyone. That or she was simply more willing to cut through the nonsense.

His father was using her almost as he might a fool, he realised, but with kindness and tutelage in return. King Robert despised the game of thrones but he had been playing long enough to be adept.

The final of the tourney began: The Knight of the Flowers, Loras Tyrell against the Mountain, Gregor Clegane. It was a joust between day and night, light and dark, beautiful and ugly.

Loras embodied each of the chivalric virtues and skills that were still being drilled into Gendry. 

Clegane was hardly more than a killing machine: huge, powerful, unmerciful, unyielding and apparently without conscience. Gendry had been told by more than one person that he was responsible for the deaths of Queen Elia and her children during the war and had done Queen Cersei’s dirty work for her since.

The joust began and to the astonishment of most, Tyrell unseated Clegane from his jittery mount. The hand to hand combat that followed was fast, brutal and looked like it would end in a death. Tyrell fell and Clegane looked fit to run his sword clean through the boy’s neck.

Gendry watched as another sword entered the fray.

‘It’s the Hound!’ he heard Arya call over the near-silence in the field.

The crowd watched as the younger Clegane brother took on the elder. It was a more evenly matched brawl than with Loras, who had scrambled away.

Just as Gregor was about to slice off his brother’s head, the King stood.

‘Enough!’ he bellowed.

The Hound was saved from his brother’s longsword by a hair’s breadth as he knelt before the King. The Mountain had no time for any such fealty and stormed away to his horse, which he summarily executed in the same manner he would’ve ended his brother.

‘I have had enough of him,’ the King muttered.

‘The Hound or the Mountain?’ Arya asked. Her eyes were bright with excitement from what she’d just seen.

‘Both. One was my wife’s pet, the other my son’s. Bloody Cleganes.’

Through the Mountain’s actions, Loras Tyrell was named victor and predictably handed a prettily-blushing Sansa Stark the crown of flowers for the Queen of Love & Beauty.

Gendry was hardly surprised and did not miss the look of longing shared between his uncle Renly and Loras.

The joust over, it only remained for yet another feast.

Arya returned to her family and he heard her moan: ‘I’m not hungry!’

‘Well you won’t be at the feast long,’ Sansa sniped, crown still balanced perfectly on her flaming hair. ‘You’re too young!’

‘I hope I’m always too young for all that stupidness!’

‘So do I! You only ever embarrass me!’

‘I do not!’

Gendry smiled and watched as Lady Stark hustled her daughters into the waiting carriage. It reminded him that he owed Bran a visit.

A frantic voice sought his attention. ‘Your Grace! Your Grace!’

He turned - heart sinking - to find Mace Tyrell rushing towards him.

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘I would be honoured to escort you back to the castle if-’

A third voice cut in. ‘I’m terribly sorry, my lord but I have already offered the use of my litter.’

Gendry tried not to heave a sigh of relief at his rescue by Tyrion Lannister and then had to hide a smile at the strangled distaste on Mace’s face and the quickly-smothered scowl worn by his daughter stood close by.

Clearly Tyrion had weighed up the situation for him.

Gendry bowed slightly to Tyrell. ‘Another time, my lord. I hope to see you and your family this evening.’

He rushed away with Tyrion as fast as politeness would allow. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

‘What manner of friend would leave you to the fragrant mercies of the Tyrells?’

‘They are not bad people.’

‘They are extremely ambitious people whose vast granaries are surpassed only by the scale of their social climbing.’

‘Rich coming from a Lannister.’

‘Naturally, for we stinking rich.’

Tyrion’s litter-carriers openly blanched at the sight of Gendry.

‘Oh,’ Tyrion said, slapping his forehead in a theatrical manner. ‘How silly of me. I quite forgot that I brought my smallest litter. If only I also had a large black stallion at my disposal…’

A groom handed him the reins of such a beast.

‘A gift for you, Your Grace. He is powerful but obedient. My father saw to that.’

‘I cannot accept.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘I will accept the use of your beast to the castle but I will not accept any horse broken by Tywin Lannister. I could never trust it.’

Tyrion nodded. ‘Of course. I understand. Especially after Jaime yesterday-’

‘Will he recover?’

‘If he wants to.’ Tyrion blinked. ‘I’m not sure he wants to. He and my sister were twins, you know. They were extremely close.’

‘So I have been told.’

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite. Now, shall I race you back?’

‘You’re on.’

 

*

 

There was a definite tension in the air that evening. Much had happened since the tourney’s conclusion, not all of it good.

‘The Mountain got thrown in the Black Cells!’ Randyll Tarly was agog with the news and overcome that he would be the one to tell the prince. ‘For the murder of Elia Martell and her children! And for the ransacking of various towns no less!’

‘Can the Black Cells even hold a man like that?’ Mathis Rowan asked.

‘And that’s not all,’ Tarly was furious at being interrupted. ‘The King has sent word to Dorne - they can do what they like with him!’

Rowan looked genuinely taken aback. ‘But- but… they’ll kill him.’

‘My lord,’ Gendry replied. ‘We have recently received proof that Ser Gregor has been pillaging towns in the Crown lands. Either Done executes him or we certainly will.’

‘Are a handful of rapes and murders lesser or greater crimes than pillage?’ Tarly presumed himself a philosopher at that moment.

‘Pillage is worse,’ Rowan replied.

‘Why so, Rowan?’

‘Rape and murder are cheap crimes. Pillage costs the landlords far more.’

Bile rose in Gendry’s throat at the casual attitude towards humanity. He managed to excuse himself with the merest hint of courtesy and bolted away.

Margaery Tyrell was the nearest free person and commiserated with him: ‘The great lords of Westeros are so… dull.’

‘Not the word I would use,’ he muttered darkly.

‘What about… selfish? Feeble, indecisive or avaricious?’

‘Not very diplomatic, but certainly a start, my lady.’ Gendry took a moment to appreciate Margaery for a moment. She really was very beautiful, slender and with an eye for clothing which left enough to the imagination to inspire curiosity but uncovered enough to draw attention in the first place.

She had been trained well in the ways of the gentle lady. She was pretty, well-dressed and softly spoken but also intelligent, witty and well able to read a political situation. She would make a very good marriage one day and no doubt make her lord a very good wife.

‘I have to wonder at what your royal father and Lord Stark see in each other,’ Margaery said, gazing over at the King and his best friend on the dais, heads close together in conversation.

‘They were fostered together, my lady.’

‘That explains proximity and opportunity but not the true reason.’

‘I think they complement each other. My father needs someone to keep him grounded and Lord Stark needs someone to pull him into the clouds.’

‘How poetic you are becoming, Your Grace.’

Gendry blinked at her a moment. The words were said lightly, presented kindly and yet it felt like a gentle slap.  Do not forget , it said.  You are only a blacksmith’s apprentice , it said.  You are not one of us,  it said. Or did it? Was the interpretation derived from his own self-doubt or was the Tyrell daughter truly setting him in his place?

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure anyone who knows them would give you the same answer.’

‘Perhaps Your Grace, but you should not rush to self-deprecation. Surely you know there are men enough ready to pull you down?’

‘Is that a threat or a warning, my lady?’

‘A kindly meant observation, Your Grace. Whatever suspicions you hold, and I am sure they are well-founded, I assure you that I am your friend. Your friend, Margaery. Not Lord Tyrell’s marriageable daughter, your friend. Like Loras is Prince Renly’s friend.’

‘Not quite like that,’ Gendry joked.

Margaery raised her perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘No, not quite… but in whatever way I might be able to provide service to my crown prince, he need only ask.’

He’d been propositioned a number of times since his unveiling as prince… but not quite so neatly or by so tempting a subject. It was tempting, to be sure, yet he still felt like an animal being hunted, still felt as though he was being led, prodded and nudged towards a trap. If not by Margaery herself, then by someone… or several someones.

His mind returned back to the moment in his rooms and the discovery of the tunnels. Was someone watching him now, taking note of how he stood in relation to the lady, examining his body language and making decisions to affect his life?

‘My father is calling for me,’ Margaery said. Sure enough, Mace Tyrell was waving furiously across the hall, red-faced from too much wine.

Gendry “did the rounds” to make sure he’d at least acknowledged as many of those present as he could. More than one or two minor lords tried to engage him in deeper conversations, hoping to advance their houses through advantageous connections to this new prince.

There was one thing about being a discovered prince: a blank slate upon which the court could paint its hopes and dreams. He had no existing loyalties (save those to House Stark of course) and so everyone felt they had a chance.

It was late when the king roared for attention.

‘I have an announcement to make!’ he boomed.

Gendry rushed back to the head table to sit at his side and observe his father’s state. He was steady on his feet and clear-eyed though not quite sober, yet a little giddy about something.

‘An announcement, Your Grace?’ someone called out impertinently. ‘Good news we hope!’

‘Indeed it is! Great tragedy befell House Baratheon with the accidental deaths of my beloved wife and children. I hardly believed I could move on and yet I found my beloved son Gendry!’

Everyone roared with approval, whether sincere or not. Gendry blushed and nodded acknowledgement.

‘…and now more good news. A marriage!’

Gendry's heart fell into his shoes. Was he not even to be consulted on his own future? Mace Tyrell looked far, far too pleased with himself and Lord Stark looked displeased. He had assumed that if he was going to be given away in marriage for solely political reasons, it would be Sansa Stark-

‘I am honoured that Margaery Tyrell has consented to marry this old warrior and bring him comfort and joy in a way I had given up all hope of!’

Silence. The fresh young rose of House Tyrell was to marry the  king ? She stood and curtsied just at the moment that the assemblage remembered itself and began to applaud, cheer and whoop their approval, sincere or not.

Gendry plastered a neutrally pleased smile onto his face as he considered all this. Margaery was not to marry  him after all. Which was a relief and yet not quite.

Suddenly it all became a little clearer: Margaery was  young yet childbearing. If she presented King Robert with a legitimate son, Gendry would almost certainly not be king. He saw the looks of satisfaction and pity on faces as they turned on him, and wondered what was coming next.

Everyone was all politeness and charm for the rest of the night, buoyed by the happy news.

And then, Arya Stark opened her mouth at exactly the wrong moment. For whatever reason, the din in the hall dipped in volume and enough people heard a childish voice call out:

‘…but I heard it with my own ears! Someone set the fire on purpose! They said it was to cleanse the sin-’

Gendry saw Lord Stark actually clamp his hand over Arya’s mouth and lift her up and out of the Hall. Probably only around twenty people could actually hear her but from the way the gossip then swept through the Hall like a giant wave, it didn’t matter, for the damage had been done.

The delicate political balance they were living depended on that fire being an accident. If enough people doubted it, they were in for uncertain times indeed.

 

*

 

Gendry could not sleep. The way Lord Stark had looked as he escorted his daughter out of the feast had stuck with him. Lord Stark knew  something was amiss and Gendry at least trusted him to answer his questions if he could, so he went to the Tower of the Hand on the off-chance that the Hand was in fact, awake too.

Not only was Lord Stark awake and in his solar, he was not alone. King Robert was there, face like thunder and pacing the room with all the pent up rage of a captured wild animal. Varys stood quietly observing as they spoke, and did not appear remotely surprised at Gendry’s arrival.

‘What’s going on?’

‘You’re up well past your bedtime, boy!’ His father had no more to say to him. ‘Ned, I cannot let this insult stand!’

‘She is a child!’

‘If Tywin Lannister thinks I killed off his dynasty we’ll be at war with a man who has as much gold as he has few morals.’

‘Calm down, Robert.’

‘I am your KING!’

‘Calm down, Your  Grace .’

‘I am bloody calm. Your daughter needs to be-’

‘What is going on?’ Gendry cut in. ‘And what can I do to help?’

‘Ned Stark’s daughter has brought war down on our heads and there isn’t anything you can do!’

‘But…  was the fire an accident?’

‘Of course it wasn’t!’ Robert snapped.

‘Did you-’

‘Ask that question and lose a hand!’

‘Who stands to benefit?’ Lord Stark asked. Gendry could see that he was schooling himself to remain rational, reasonable and placid. ‘You did.’

‘And those bloody Tyrells.’

It became clear quickly as they rattled off names that plenty of people had the motive to kill the Queen, if not her children.

‘She made more enemies than I realised.’ Robert collapsed into a chair by the dying fire, energy ebbing. ‘And here I thought nobody could hate that cheating whore as much as I did.’

‘Your late wife was not to all tastes, Your Grace,’ said Varys, his cloying tones making Gendry a little sick.

‘You mean she rubbed everyone up the wrong way! Gendry, believe this if nothing else: If I had killed Cersei, I would have used my bare fucking hands!’

‘I believe you, Father. I did not mean to accuse you, only to ask if you knew who could have done it. You were a few rooms away.’

‘Quite comatose from wine, women and song. Anyway, whoever set the flame is almost certainly not the man who had the idea.’

‘None of that matters at present.’ Lord Stark tossed his pen down onto the note he’d been trying to write. ‘What are we going to do about Arya?’

Varys shuffled silently across to the fire. ‘She cannot remain here, my lord. She must have heard somebody say something… and even if she didn’t, the wrong people will believe she did.’

‘She did hear people,’ Gendry told them. ‘She mentioned it to me some time ago.’

‘Arya sometimes has an interesting view of the truth,’ Ned replied. ‘She exaggerates-’

‘Be that as it may, she is no longer safe in King’s Landing,’ Varys tried to meet Stark’s gaze but the Hand kept his eyes fixed firmly on the note.

‘Not safe? You think someone will try to- silence her?’ Gendry asked.

‘Someone already did.’ Stark tossed a jewelled dagger off the desk towards him and it clattered to the floor at his feet. ‘We have the assassin in the Black Cells but no clues so far other than that knife. As long as someone thinks Arya is a danger to them, they are a danger to her.’

‘I suggested having her tried for reporting treason,’ Robert said.

Stark scoffed. ‘And I-’

‘Nothing more than a show trial to prove she knows nothing.’

‘She’d be killed before that,’ Gendry added. He thought of the fear he felt as he was bundled out of the Landing by Lord Arryn. ‘You have to get her out of the city.’

‘Out of Westeros,’ Varys corrected. ‘I have a plan, my lords.’

Stark looked to age ten years in the moment he took a long breath. ‘Tell me more.’


	11. A Rhoynish Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the feedback so far - much appreciated!
> 
> In return, I thought now was the perfect point in the story to take a deep breath and just chill on a riverbank for a minute or two...

On the banks of a tributary of the great river Rhoyne if one knew where to look, a sprightly old Braavosi fellow passed the twilight of his years.

His cottage was pleasant situated close to the water. A waterwheel cranked water up to the house and provided energy for a small mill. The house was exactly the right size for the residents and had nothing more nor less than they needed for a simple life.

Few people bothered the old man, who occasionally took his ox-driven cart to the nearest market town for supplies and trade. Few even knew the cottage existed and he was able to peacefully exist away from the troubles, strife and politics of the rest of Essos. His serenity had been hard-won and he was determined to keep it.

Therefore he was displeased to have an unexpected visitor as he ate his breakfast in the warm morning sun.

‘You are lost,’ he called as the unknown figure dismounted his horse - Dothraki-reared by the looks of it - and strode to him. ‘A man must have become confused.’

‘I do not believe so,’ he replied, voice deep and booming. ‘I am looking for someone.’

‘You have found a man who is not someone.’

‘No indeed. May I partake of your water, my man?’

The man nudged the glass carafe across the table. ‘Only a cruel man would deny another water.’

The interloper drank long and deep. ‘I have been in search of someone to bring news.’

‘News? Is it of the girl queen? A man has heard much of the girl queen and her Dothraki warlord. A man has no business with such things.’

‘Khal Drogo and his Khaleesi have the Unsullied in their control but that is not my news. I bring word from Westeros.’

‘None here have interest in that place.’

‘Not even that the King is dead?’

‘Not even.’

‘Then none here would care to know that the King is dead and his son has been arrested? None here would care to know that all Westeros is in chaos?’

‘Not that, indeed.’

‘And I suppose that none here care to know that the dead children of the King were proved not to be the children of the King?’

‘None here care for more than the rising of the sun and the flowing of the river.’

‘Then I was mistaken after all. I must continue on to Volantis. Perhaps the man I seek is there.’

‘A man may be.’

The old man watched as the unwanted guest took to his horse and rode away. 

Then, with more agility and grace than his age suggested, the old man leapt to his feet and called out: ‘A girl is wanted!’

A dark head poked out of a window. ‘I’m not late, am I?’

‘No, girl… but you are wanted now just the same.’

In the time it took her to come downstairs, he was waiting in the small kitchen, packing provisions into a bag.

‘What troubles you?’

‘It is time for you to go home.’

For three years she had been wondering when this moment might pass.

‘Is a man coming with me?’

‘No, child.’ He flexed his hands, the arthritis in them far more painful than he ever admitted. He sighed: ‘To Tyrosh but no further.’

‘But-’

‘A man can do no more. A man grows tired.’

She scowled. ‘But-’

‘A girl does not need me.’

‘I- When do I have to leave?’

‘Soon.’

‘Time for one last lesson?’ Her eyes were bright with unshoed tears. ‘Please?’

He put down the bag and took up a slim blade instead. With a sigh, he flashed her a bright smile. ‘A man cannot deny a girl.’

 

 


	12. A Rhoynish Interlude, Part II

 

The journey to Tyrosh was slow going, made by ox-cart and river barge. The old man and the girl travelled light but even they were dependent on good weather, good roads and the need to rest the animals.

As they crossed the Rhoyne and reached populated areas, they heard more “news” about the Westerosi King: each new town and village provided more versions of what “really” happened.

‘Robert Baratheon was killed on the privy.’

‘He was poisoned by his young wife and her lover.’

‘His son ran him through.’

‘Faceless Man-’

‘His young wife’s carnal demands wore the lucky sod out.’

‘He drank too much and choked.’

The Old Man had taught the girl that all rumours had a hint of truth about them, if one knew where to look. It was to this notion that she returned during the latest portion of their long journey.

‘But they’re all such different tales!’ The last word was half-yelped as the cart jolted.

‘It is possible for two seemingly opposing facts to be equally true.’

‘Yes, if they are both  not true .’

The Old Man pulled on the reins to keep the oxen on the straight and narrow. ‘Just so. But they may both be true and yet contradictory.’

‘How so?’

‘I am not your father and yet I am father to you.’

She blinked once, twice, thrice. ‘Yes.’

The oxen moaned as the road surface began to worsen in quality as they gained distance from the last townland they’d paused in.

They had been travelling for two weeks and had at least another week to go before reaching Tyrosh.

The Girl took the reins. ‘You should rest.’

‘As a Girl commands.’

She laughed at the notion of  her  commanding  him to do anything. ‘I’ll wake you when we reach the next village.’

 

*

 

They sold the cart and animals at the port before boarding the ferry to the island city of Tyrosh. The Girl had noticed that the Old Man was looking much older than he had at the beginning of their journey.

‘I will be well,’ he waved away her concerns as they settled into lodgings at an inn near the docks. 

The innkeeper provided a small room and dinner for a price fit to make the Iron Bank weep. In a city full of sell-swords, they had not felt safe sleeping unguarded.

The Old Man made a few quick enquiries and quickly acquired a berth on a ship sailing to Westeros for the Girl. The Grey Lady would set sail in two days and the Girl was eager to spend as much time with the Old Man before they finally parted ways. Rather, she was eager to spend as much time trying to persuade him to come with her.

‘A man will stay until a girl is away, then a man must-;

‘Please come!’

‘A man cannot.’ He coughed most uncharacteristically. ‘A girl will have no cause to fear.’

‘Of course not but-’ she stopped, eyes narrow. ‘That boy is looking at me.’

‘Many boys look at many girls. A girl is a girl no more, in truth.’

A Girl scowled. Her feminine qualities had never held much value to her and less so after the passage of three years she'd spent diligently, quietly honing other far more useful skills.

She glared back. The boy had the blue hair usual of Tyroshi and curious, compelling eyes. He also had a smirk so smug that she wanted to slice it off his lips with her sword.

Not long after she had finished the evening meal - a thin gruel-like soup that hardly deserved the name - the boy approached.

‘Hello. I’m Griff. The landlord says you’re sailing on The Grey Lady.’

‘The landlord may say what he likes without being right.’

‘But you are? So am I… and my father over there. I just thought it would be pleasant to know our fellow passengers. Especially the pretty ones.’

Her fists clenched. The Old Man snorted into his tankard.

‘Has a boy heard news from across the Narrow Sea?’ he redirected the conversation before the girl could cause lasting damage.

‘Lots of news, all of questionable quality. Probably quite out of date too. The King is dead, that much is certain. The Prince is in jail. Or was in jail and isn’t now. He was the Queen’s lover. Or he wasn’t. The Queen’s children were bastards. The first Queen, I mean. The second queen never whelped. Came close a few times or was totally barren. He was killed by his enemies. He was killed by his friends. I’m glad to be going to Westeros to find out what actually happened. As much as you ever can know the truth.’

‘Do you ever take a breath?’ she asked.

‘Is a boy Tyroshi?’ the Old Man asked.

‘My mother.’ He ran a hand through his blue hair. ‘Father there is Westerosi. We’re going back to bury his mother.’

‘Just so.’ The Old Man and the Girl exchanged a sceptical glance: a boy was a liar, but he could be useful. ‘What other news?’

‘Something about the Iron Islands causing trouble for the North. I wasn’t listening, in truth. Politics does not interest me.’

‘Politics doesn’t interest you?’ she asked coolly.

‘Not compared to a pretty face or a night under the bright stars. Or the sweet song of a good troubadour.’ Griff sighed theatrically and leaned back in his chair. It would’ve tipped right over but for the steady pair of hands that grasped his shoulders and righted him.

His father had a pleasant enough mien. ‘Are you bothering these good people, Young Griff?’

‘Bothering? No, of course not-’

‘Yet I feel it’s time for us to take to our room.’ The father gave the son no room to object without causing a scene.

 

*

 

They did not meet the Griffs again until the Grey Lady sailed. The Old Man had taken the Girl to a high cliff overlooking the fierce waters of the bay for a final lesson.

He instructed her to stand barefoot on the cliff top to close to the edge that her toes curled over the rocky ledge.

‘A girl should close her eyes.’

She obeyed, as she (almost) always did. The harsh wind buffeted her side to side, back and forth. She engaged the muscles in her legs.

‘A girl wishes to jump,’ he guessed.

‘Yes. I don’t know why.’

‘It is human nature to do the obvious thing, the easy thing. A girl stands on a precipice so a girl would jump.’

A fierce gust of wind knocked her slightly off balance. A lesser person would have fallen definitively to a painful death but the Old Man had been training the Girl for many years and though forced to bow, she did not break.

‘A Girl must remember she is stronger than the obvious and the easy way. A Girl can stand firm. A Girl must remember.’

She stepped away from the cliff without being told, a point they both felt keenly.

‘Please will you come?’

‘A man has another destiny.’

She scowled. ‘What do we say to the god of death?’

He smiled and held a hand out to her as they returned to the city. ‘Not today.’

 

*

 

The Grey Lady departed Tyrosh with the evening tide. A Girl stood at the stern looking back at the pier until it was no longer possible to see the Old Man watching back.

When he was out of sight, she rushed below decks to the small cabin given over to her exclusive use. There, the Girl fought and lost against the urge to weep her heart out.

She had spent almost every moment of every day with the Old Man for three years and much of the previous two years before that. He had been teacher, father, mentor and friend… and now he was gone.

She was not stupid and knew that he was close to death. She would never see him again. Once upon a time she might have wailed and railed against the truth, but it was everything he had trained her not to do… so she remained calm, breathed long and found acceptance of reality in serenity.

The storm blew up on the second night. It came on all at once: the sudden, vicious gales knocked the Girl out of her bunk. Only momentarily confused, she leapt up and took herself up to the wave-swept deck.

The ship roiled, rocked, smashed and plunged through the ever-changing, ranging sea.

‘How can I help?’ she yelled over the cacophony.

The Captain looked at her as though she were half-mad, a girl who could ‘Get below decks out of the way, that’s how you help.’

She scowled briefly, ready to argue, but instead looked around the madness to see for herself if she could help. The foremast was cracked and the lookout had been tossed from his basket. Fortunately he had not fallen to his death. Unfortunately, he had not fallen because his legs were tangled in the rigging.

The Girl could help. She climbed up to him, and her arms burned with the ache and her eyes stung from the salty spray. She climbed on until she reached the lucky/not lucky lookout.

It was an unspeakable effort to get him untangled, like trying to practice archery against a moving target in the middle of a joust. Still, she managed to get his feet free and together the clambered down to the deck - just in time to get the best view of the mast breaking entirely under the force of a hard, heavy wave, which dragged it Way from the boat and into the inky depths.

‘So,’ she repeated to the Captain. ‘How can I help?’

For two days and another night, the crew fought against the storm. They slept in groups of three in short shifts. The Girl tried to sleep but the constant jolting and crashing stopped her.

Finally, the sun rose on the next day and the sea was calm. The sky was a perfect blue with only a couple of wisps of cloud to interrupt.

The ship was half-wrecked. Two of the three masts were gone, part of the deck was smashed but the hull itself was mostly sound. The windows of the cabins had shattered.

More than that, two crew were lost, another crushed under a falling beam and three had broken limbs. The Captain’s teeth were even more broken than they had been before.

The Girl was unhurt but sore, aching and exhausted. Her efforts to help save the Grey Lady had made her the crew’s newest idol.

The storm had blown the ship well off course but with so much damage, the Captain would not risk trying to reach their original Kings Landing destination.

He gathered crew and passengers together on the deck to explain. It was the first time the Griffs and the three other passengers had left their cabins since the storm. They stared open mouthed at the wreckage.

‘Listen up!’ the Captain barked. ‘We’re in a bad way and have to make port wherever we can. We’ve little in the way of food or fresh water, so we’re on restricted rations immediately.’

Two of the passengers began grumbling but the Captain whacked his stick against the railing. It wobbled dangerously.

‘There is no argument. I am the captain of this ship so until we reach land, I am Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith and you’ll remember it or I’ll become the Stranger to you! I will get you safely to Westeros.’

The larger of the two men, blond and with a forked beard, was not pleased to hear this. ‘But-’

‘You are welcome to return to your bunk, m’lord!’

‘You-’

‘If you need assistance, my crew will assist you!’

Forked Beard scowled with pompous impotence, flicked his magenta cloak and went back down stairs. The Girl would’ve laughed but she was far too tired.

 

*

 

The Grey Lady finally found safe harbour just as the fresh water ran out. Even Forked Beard had been silenced by the reality of sparse rationing but as he made contact with Westerosi ground, he returned to his characteristic bluster and imperious demanding.

‘Where are we?’ The Girl asked the Captain.

He just pointed towards a great fortress atop a cliff not so very far away.

‘Storm’s End!’

‘You know it? I didn’t know you’d ever been to Westeros.’

‘You never asked.’ The Girl leapt lightly from the boat to the dock.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

The Girl smiled, and said nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the commens so far! We'll be back in Westeros next time!
> 
> Also, I don't have a beta and am having to write bits and pieces around work and other real world things. So if you notice anything odd or wrong, do let me know - especially if it looks like an autocorrect 'correction'! But be gentle, eh?


	13. Storm's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay since the last chapter. I hope the next update won't be so long in coming.
> 
> As always, I appreciate feedback and if you notice any wonky autocorrect screw-ups, do let me know!

She arrived at Storm’s End in the mid-morning but the sun was low in the sky when she was finally granted entrance, after hours of loud demands to see the lord of the castle.

When the gates finally opened, she was genuinely taken a-back when Lord Renly Baratheon himself came out flanked by several guards. He looked much the same as the last time she had seen him, if suspicious of her.

He stared at her a moment. She glared back. Renly burst into raucous laughter. ‘Seven hells, the real thing at last!’

The guards shared an uncertain and cautious glance between themselves at this most unexpected response from their lord.

Renly threw his arms open and rushed at her. ‘Arya, at last! I had a feeling today would be the day. No idea why, but I had a feeling! Oh, what an impressive a glare!’

She tensed as he embraced her warmly. ‘You- you remember me?’

‘There have been half a dozen impostor Arya Starks since my brother died, and yet here you are at Storm’s End! Come inside, dear child and tell me everything.’

‘Only if you tell  me everything.’

‘Of course.’

She paused, as wary and suspicious as she had been trained to be. ‘Why do you believe in me?’

He laughed again and lightly tapped the faint scar that ran down the side of her face at the hairline. ‘I was there when you got that, if you recall. Barely days in King’s Landing and you half-bled to death.’

She went very red at the memory of an embarrassing moment, shocked at how a moment so long ago could still have power over her. Then her training kicked in and she felt nothing for it. ‘I was very young, my lord.’

The politesse felt foreign on her tongue, just as the name “Arya” rattled awkwardly in her ears after so long without it. She wished to be back in the serenity of the riverside cottage, living the reassuring routine of training. She had - almost - forgotten how much she disliked courtly nonsense.

Renly remembered their situation: ‘Come inside, Arya. You look like you’ve been through three or four of the seven hells.’

‘There was a storm.’

Renly’s lips twitched. ‘We get those around here. We’ll take good care of you.’

‘First I must know-’

‘No,’ he pressed a gloved finger to her mouth. ‘Eat, rest, clean up. There is much to tell and none of it is going anywhere.’

He nodded to a tall, broad-shouldered guard behind him, who took Arya by the arm politely but firmly. Arya, being observant, noticed before most that this guardsman was in fact, a woman.

‘I’ve seen all sorts of things,’ Arya said as she was tugged through the courtyard and halls of Storm’s End. ‘But never a woman in armour.’

‘Until now, my lady.’ The guard did not slow down or vary her route no matter what Arya said, nor when she tried to wriggle free from the strange knight’s vice-like grip.

‘Yes. Is it comfortable?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I always wanted armour.’

The guard faltered slightly, surprised. ‘Really, my lady?’

‘Yes. Until Syri- until I was taught a different way. Armour slows you down. Unbalances you.’

‘Perhaps, my lady, but it does tend to help against broadswords and maces.’

‘Have you been in any battles?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Brienne of Tarth, my lady.’

‘You’re very proper and correct.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘I’d forgotten all that “my lady” silliness. Light meaningless words hiding what anyone really means. The world is too serious for that.’

‘I agree, my lady, but the world has its rules and we are duty-bound to honour them.’

‘Rules?’ Arya asked almost unconsciously. ‘I have no time for those, either.’

‘Do you always talk this much, my lady?’

‘I haven’t babbled on like this for years. Something about being back here…’

They reached the room given over to Arya’s use. The maids scrubbed her clean while food was prepared, then Renly’s own personal barber came to tidy up her hair and his wardrobe master came to provide her with the kind of fine clothing she had not missed for three years.

She scowled in the mirror as she looked at the close-cut dress he’d almost sewn her directly into. The smooth texture of the soft cloth was pleasing to her roughened fingers but she felt unworthy of and ungrateful for such lovely things.

 

*

 

She  was grateful to discover that dinner was in Lord Renly’s private dining chamber: just the two of them and a few of his personal guard. It was quiet enough to feel comfortable and noisy enough to feel like they were not being listened to.

She took a bite of tender steak, chewed careful for a moment, then spoke: ’Tell me.’

Renly’s insouciant shrug was maddening but she hid her reaction behind her neutral mask. ’There's a lot I don't know.

’Who lived and who died? Who is imprisoned and who is not?’

’Who knows? It seems to change daily.’

’My father? my family?’

’A long story.’

She pointedly poured more wine. ’I am in no rush.’

’You should be. You'll be needed, princess.’

’Princess?’

’Your father was proclaimed King in the North in absentia when he was thrown in the black cells.’

’What was his crime?’

’Trying to save the king.’

’Which king? There seem to be a few going around.’

’Robert. Gendry. Stannis.’

’Stannis?’ Arya’s neutral mask was disrupted more by this surprise than the anguish of her father’s fate.

’He claims that Gendry’s illegitimacy renders him base, unsuitable for rule and therefore an invalid monarch. He has a red priestess whispering poison in his ear.’

’What happened when King Robert died?’

’The walls have ears, my dear. On our way to King’s Landing I-’

’What? I can't go there if my father is jailed!’

’You must exactly because he  is ,’

Preparation for the journey was quick: Renly had few guards and Arya had no possessions to speak of. 

They travelled incognito on an old cart followed at a discreet distance by his Rainbow Guard. The weather was cold but clear and the going was good.

Still, Renly would not be pushed to say much of interest to Arya, who demanded to know where they were going and what had been going on in her absence.

’We are going to King’s Landing… but not to the Red Keep. Too dangerous.’

’Why?’

Renly looked around cautiously. They were quite alone on the open road but even so, he kept his voice low.

’Firstly you should know that the worst happened.’

‘The worst?’ 

‘A Lannister-Tyrell alliance. Once Gendry was accused of killing his father, he had no choice  but to run. He's a bastard and few nobles truly supported him in the face if such a charge.’

’Who did kill the king?’

’On the list of answers I don't have, that is top.’

’Are we going to meet Gendry?’

Renly only nodded.

Arya sighed, tired from her journey and the confusion swirling in her head. ’Then I shall save my questions for him.’

 

*

 

Their direction veered from the city a mile from the walls and Arya watched silently as Renly and his guards instead took them to a non-descript tumbledown cottage at the edge of the Kings wood. It reminded her of the Rhoyne house and she already missed those uncomplicated times with Syria.

Guards were posted at strategic points nearby, but Arya’s training and skill noted them all. She even vaguely recognised some as younger courtiers and palace guards from “before”.

’What are you doing here!?’

Arya was as surprised to see Loras Tyrell stood at the door as he sounded, but his pleased exclamation was for Renly alone. They embraced warmly, a touch longer than mere friends, and at least answered a question she had had during her first Southron stay.

’Here to see the lad. Got someone for him.’

Loras recognised her after a moment and bestowed a blinding smile upon her. ’How glad I am to see you grown and well, my lady.’ The word “alive” was left implicit.

’Thank you, Ser Loras.’

’He's inside. Just had a raven from Prince Robb.’

Arya snorted an unladylike laugh at hearing her brother so named. Behind her, Brienne coughed what she presumably believed was a subtle nudge towards courtesies.

‘Come on in,’ Loras said. ‘He’ll be pleased to see  you …’

This time, Loras’ attention was all on Arya.

 

*

 

Inside the cottage was dark and deserted. Had she been a more credulous sort, Arya would have been confused but she was expecting Loras to open the trapdoor concealed under the hearth.

‘Careful there.’ He handed her down into the hole.

Ash and embers fell through the floorboards as Arya passed under the fireplace. A dim light flickered at the end of the dark, narrow passage and she walked unhesitatingly along.

The small cavern held nothing but a makeshift bed and a small writing desk and chair which had seen much, much better days. A small tallow candle burned inefficiently on the desk, illuminating the hunched figure sat there.

Arya took a moment to silently observe. King Gendry Baratheon, First of His Name, had completed his transition from boy to man during her time across the Narrow Sea. Even seated it was obvious that he was even taller than she remembered: his long legs stretched out under the desk, which in his use appeared more like a dinner tray on legs.

His hair was long but neat and he had grown something of a beard which she did not wholly like. His face was contorted with a frown as he squinted to read the note from Prince Robb.

She decided to make herself known with a shuffle of her feet. He looked up, crystal blue eyes glinting in the uneven light. The frown smoothed away into surprise, uncertain confusion.

‘Arya?’ he asked, blinking. ‘You’re really here!’

‘Yes indeed.’

He scrambled onto his feet, knocking the desk. The candle flickered dangerously but did not fall. ‘Where have you been? I mean, were you safe, well?’

‘Safer than you, it seems.’

He sighed and beckoned for her to take the chair. She did, but he sat on the edge of the rickety bed and took her hands in his. ‘It is a long and terrible story.’

‘I gathered as much from what little Renly told me… and your change in circumstances.’

‘Will you tell me all?’

‘It is a very long story.’

‘What happened to your father?’

Gendry blinked again, this time to flick away an errant tear or two. ‘He married Margaery Tyrell and unwittingly let the foxes into the hen house.’ He sighed. ‘No, not unwittingly. He knew what he was doing. He just didn’t realise…’

Gendry shifted in place. ‘It’s cold and dank in here and this is a long story. We should-’

‘No, I want to know  now . Renly has been putting me off. I’d wager that if we went into the air you’d tell me the woods have ears. I was nearly shipwrecked only days ago. Tell me  now .’

‘Where to begin-’

‘The beginning.’

‘You’ve got even more demanding and brusque in your time away.’

‘I was training with the First Sword of Braavos, not the Black Pearl!’

‘The what?’

‘Never mind.’ Arya felt her face flush. ‘Tell me what  happened .’

‘It is a long story. I only know a little-’

Arya growled. ‘Tell. Me. Now.’

‘Very well, milady. I will tell all I know.’

 

*

 


	14. Living The Dream

_The Red Keep, King’s Landing_

 

Gendry awoke abruptly, immediately on his guard. All was silent and still but he was alert just the same. He glanced over at the hidden door but all was well there.

He reached under his pillow for the thin, deadline rapier he’d made for himself.

He had been waiting for “something” for weeks, ever since the Tourney and Arya’s disappearance. There were many enemies of the Iron Throne, of his father personally and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He crept from his room and saw a flash of golden hair in the dim early morning light as a cloaked figure stole into the King’s chamber.

It could mean nothing good.

Slipping into the room, Gendry was just in time to see Jaime Lannister limp towards the slumbering King, dagger raised in his uninjured hand. But, before Gendry could move, Robert himself was up and had Lannister easily overcome.

‘You killed her!’ Jaime half-mumbled, half-yelped. His whole being, inside and out, was broken.

‘No, lad.’ Robert was shockingly gentle with his would-be assassin. ‘I swear to the Old Gods and the New, the Red God and the Water gods and any other gods you care to name… I did not.’

‘You did! I know you did. You must have… When you discovered-’

‘No.’ Robert cut in as he took the dagger. ‘Twas not I. If you believe anything of me, Lannister, know that I would have killed her with my own bare hands, for all the Seven Kingdoms to see. I am no coward and I did not kill your- sister.’

Jaime crumpled to the floor, a mass of hysteria and too-large cloak.

‘Ah, Gendry. Help Jaime back to the Master’s rooms, there’s a good lad.’

He was obedient and did so. Jaime had physically wasted away to half a shadow of his former self and it was no difficult for hammer-wielding Gendry to carry him through the castle before he rushed back to his father.

‘I don’t understand, Father. Why show mercy to him of all people!’

‘I have killed many men in battle, but I have never murdered anyone.’ Robert took a slug of wine. ‘He’s not in his right mind and I must have a fair fight. Rhaegar Targaryen was a fair fight.’

‘Has he done this before?’ Gendry asked before his father could begin to wax lyrical about Prince Rhaegar at the Trident.

‘This is the… seventh time.’

‘But-’

‘He poses no threat to me. His mind was broken when his lover and children died in the fire.’

Gendry almost stumbled at the shock of what his father had just said. ‘Lover- _Cersei_?’

King Robert’s visage darkened. ‘Aye, my wife and her twin had been lovers since they were young… since they were in the womb, he once said to me after an unsuccessful attempt on my life. I knew the bastards weren’t mine as you know, but I had no idea it was _him_ until after the fire. Had I known, as I promised Jaime, she would’ve died at my hand yes, but in the open for all to see her wicked shame.’ He drank again. ‘I am glad Joffrey is no fault of mine.’

‘But- Who set the fire?’

‘I have my suspicions but no hard evidence. We will not speak of it as anything more than a tragic accident. I have no doubt more lives depend on it.’

‘What are you doing about-’

‘Not one word. I say this to keep you safe. Gendry… I’m sure you weren’t considered by whoever set this scheme going. Nobody - not even Ned Stark - expected me to name you my heir.’ Robert chuckled. ‘That rattled ‘em!’

Gendry realised he would get no more information and his father was quite safe, so he took himself back to his own bed. He did not sleep well.

 

*

 

The King’s wedding was a huge event some six moons after it was announced. The Tyrells outdid even their high standards for quality, variety and sheer quantity of produce and Dorne sent vast barrels of wine as a gift.

Lords and ladies from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond arrived clutching invitations. The countryside emptied and the city filled to bursting. Garment makers and jewellers worked morning and night to provide the luxuries required by wedding party and guests alike.

Prince Gendry found himself left mercifully to his own devices and used much of his free time learning the hidden, concealed and mysterious parts of the Red Keep. When he was not in training or lessons he was either in the library reading plans, maps and reports; or he was exploring for himself.

He did not neglect the Starks. He missed his odd young friend Arya, and all that the Hand would say was that she was safe. He brought adventures to Bran in his fur-lined prison and took Rickon outside for his.

The wolves were growing larger every day and increasingly feared by most residents of the Keep. Gendry though, adored fierce and increasingly well-trained Shaggy and protective Summer. More than anything, they were a pleasant link to those happy Winterfell days, which he looked upon with more and more nostalgia as each new day of politics and intrigue passed.

The more intense the scrutiny grew, so did his paranoia and efforts to understand the secrets of the castle - and perhaps uncover whoever else knew those secrets.

 

*

 

‘Gendry! Well, wherever did you appear from?’ Margaery’s voice was a bucket of ice water over him as he barely had time to slide a hidden panel closed.

She seemed to be sneaking more than him and although he liked her well enough, he could not say he trusted his soon to be step-mother.

‘Just wandering, my lady.’

‘How nice! May I join you?’ She gave little choice as she tucked her arm into his. ‘Are you prepared for the wedding?’

‘Is that not a question I should ask you, my lady?’

‘Please Gendry, do call me Margaery! We are to be family.’

‘As you wish, Margaery.’

‘Grandmother has everything in hand, and you know she would not tolerate anything less.’

He laughed, but it was the insincere chuckle that he had found much use for of late. Olenna Tyrell was a force to reckon with - and then some.

‘I do have some reservations.’ Margaery hesitated and Gendry almost walked on without her. ‘How am I to live up to the expectations of a Queen? I have such a predecessor-’

‘You will do very well as yourself. Nobody expects you to be like Queen Cersei.’

 _“Or would want you to…”_ remained unsaid but the quirk of her eyebrow told him she heard the message loud and clear. She tiptoed up to press her soft lips against his cheek.

‘You are sweet,’ she said. ‘I am very glad we are to be… family.’ She sashayed away, leaving him feeling confused, exposed and deeply uneasy.

She had a knack for making people like her, from highborn to small folk. Gendry accepted that he liked her but he could not trust her.

With a shake of his head, he continued through the castle.

 

*

 

Gendry dined with the Starks on the eve of his father’s wedding. Lady Catelyn sat him next to Sansa - any reservations she had regarding his illegitimacy had been rendered moot long ago by his rise in fortune and in getting to know him.

For her part, Sansa did her very best to avoid saying anything which might offend, challenge or indicate she had any talent for critical thought.

It had taken awhile, but Lady Catelyn had expanded her focus from Bran’s injury to her other children’s futures and was subtly and certainly training Sansa for marriage to a prominent lord. Or prince.

He felt Arya’s absence keenly. There was much less levity within the Stark apartments since her sudden departure and even Ned was open in his desire to return North.

‘I have been too long away from home,’ he said that evening. ‘But I am hopeful the King will permit us a trip home once he and his bride return from their honeymoon.’

‘I will speak on your behalf, if it might help.’

‘You need not trouble yourself, lad.’

‘You are not the only ones who miss the North, but at least you have a chance to return.’

Ned clapped him on the back. ‘One day, Your Grace. One day.’

 

*

 

The wedding was as grand and lavish as expected. The King and his gold-clad bride were a spectacle for the massed crowds of small folk in the streets and generous hosts to the nobility.

Feasting and drinking were the order of the day, but Gendry was glad to see his father moderate his intake. When it came time for the Bedding, there was a moment of hush. Would the King allow his new Queen to go through such an event?

‘Have at us, if you can catch us!’ he roared.

Gendry had considered this before and was determined to protect the Queen. He and Loras Tyrell both leapt to their feet and carried Margaery out of the Great Hall before any other man could get close. Behind them, the sounds of womanly shrieking told of the ladies who had reached the King.

Gendry and Loras bustled the Queen, whose feet did not even touch the floor, to the Royal Apartment before anyone could catch up.

‘Thank you brother - and Gendry - for preserving my modesty so gallantly.’

Gendry didn’t think that her close-fitting and generously-cut gown left her much modesty, but having it torn off was another thing entirely.

Margaery went into the room, followed in a short time after the King. He was remarkably sober but his clothes were tattered.

‘Must perform at my best!’ Robert chortled, either insensitive or uncaring that his audience for such a comment consisted of his own son and his bride’s brother. He went into the room and slammed the door closed.

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Loras said quietly. ‘That was kindly done of you.’

‘Of course.’

‘Renly told me you were one of the good ones. I think he may be right.’

‘He is occasionally.’

‘Yes, but don’t tell _him_ that.’ Loras winked and went on his way.

Gendry had no desire to be anywhere near this room on this night, and took himself to the warm comfort of the castle forge.

 

*

 

It was remarkable how quickly time passed when one was not looking. Two years passed in relative tranquillity. The King and his Hand managed Westeros as well as they were able: the King’s power kept the peace and the Hand’s steadiness improved the monarchical finances.

If anyone grumbled that there was less pomp and fewer tourneys, they were quickly quieted with the readily available food and jobs to be found.

Daenerys Targaryen proved a nagging problem in the east and Balon Greyjoy was an irritant in the west, while there were mumblings from the Wall about great peril… but these were minor concerns.

The Queen’s health was another matter. Two years married and no children. It was hardly from a lack of trying, as the King noted noisily from time to time. At such times Queen Margaery would smile and blush prettily but otherwise said nothing.

It was not that she was infertile, as a string of miscarriages proved, to the Queen’s mental and physical anguish.

‘I do everything I’m supposed to do!’ Margaery had taken Gendry as a (reluctant) confidant, which was easy when they both rose early in the morning and often shared breakfast.

He always made a point of sitting in his own seat, separated from her by the King’s great chair. She had tried to sit on his other side from time to time, but sharp warnings about gossip had stopped that.

‘But they never… they never stick.’

‘It will happen, I’m sure.’

‘He’ll get tired of me. I know it.’ Terrified, she stabbed at a piece of fish. ‘He’s already…’

‘You’re the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and one of the most intelligent. He is not tired of you. He has other concerns, that’s all.’

‘He is the King, of course he does.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Like marrying you off soon,’ she teased. ‘You are a man grown now, eighteen name days and more.’

‘He said that to you?’

‘Of course!’

Robert had said the exact opposite to him, that he should sow his wild oats and experience all life’s pleasures. He had even offered to send him across the Narrow Sea for an exotic expedition, but Gendry deferred, still not shaken of the belief that King Robert was in need of protection.

With Lord Stark on a visit home, he refused to leave his father alone.

‘Perhaps…’ Margaery glanced sideways at him. ‘You do not wish to marry until the question of succession is settled.’

‘It is of little importance to me, as I have told you again and again.’

He scowled. The Succession was the thorn in his side. Nobody believed that he would happily relinquish the crown to any legitimate son of Robert and Margaery. They were all so consumed by lust for the Iron Throne that it was not in any of the court to understand a person who had no desire for it. Duty towards it, but not desire for it.

‘Margaery, nothing would please me more than to see you delivered of a healthy son. I promise you that. I haven’t the energy to lie.’

‘You are kind. Perhaps if the King does not-’ she stopped.

He knew what she was inferring and silenced her with a single glare. That she would make such a proposition to anyone was bad enough, but to her husband’s son!

He thought of Jaime Lannister, now living quietly in a room in the White Tower, still broken but no longer dangerous. How long had it been since Jaime last tried to kill Robert? Only a year. He had stopped after the Queen’s first miscarriage and it occurred to Gendry that Robert’s punishment for Jaime was to be kind, to keep him close and looked after.

‘Excuse me, my lady. I must be away to my training.’

‘Of course, Gendry.’

He had become immensely strong in years of training with the best, but also fast and refined in his swordplay. He would never be as happy with a sword as a hammer, but as this brought his father nothing but joy, he hardly minded.

Varys approached as Gendry was preparing for archery. ‘Your Grace, how lovely to see you.’

‘And yourself Varys, as always.’

‘What fine weather we are having.’

‘I thought it turning cold, myself.’

‘Winter is coming?’ Varys asked.

‘Winter is always coming. How can I assist you?’

‘Assist me?’

‘You always want something, Varys. Either ask me the question or tell me the news. I’m busy.’

‘Ah, Your Grace, so quick and to the point. Yes… you might be interested to know that we are soon to have a visitor.’

‘Oh?’

‘The great old lion of Casterly Rock is on his way.’

‘Tywin Lannister is coming here?’ Gendry dropped the arrow he’d been about to aim. ‘Why?’

‘I could not say… but he brings his youngest son, which should please you.’

Tyrion was one of Gendry’s favourite correspondents and friends, but Gendry could not be pleased that Tywin was coming without warning or obvious reason. He had not been seen in King’s Landing for many years. Gendry had never seen him, but his legend was huge and terrifying.

‘Thank you, Varys. We must ensure our guest has every comfort available to him.’

Varys bowed so low that Gendry felt the mockery implicit. He dismissed the Master of Whispers curtly and returned to his training, although he felt certain that his physical might was about to become less crucial than any possible political capabilities he might have developed.

‘Jaspear!’ He summoned the squire recently assigned to him. ‘Take these back to the armoury. I’m needed elsewhere.’

 

*

 

The Lord of Casterly Rock, who had actually been immortalised in song, arrived on a day when the sky had opened itself to pour sheets of icy rain upon the people and buildings of King’s Landing. His company arrived in great splendour and the Royal family made sure to be ready to welcome him to the Red Keep. They waited at the huge door to the Great Hall, sheltered from the weather by a hastily arranged gazebo.

Prince Gendry kept his expression absolutely neutral as he took in the sight. Tywin Lannister was a tall, thin fellow with a humourless visage defined by its long, thin nose. Nothing of Cersei or Jaime’s famed beauty could be seen in the hard, cruel lines of his lips and the planes of his face. His bald head gave no indication of ever having shared the golden locks of the Lannister line but his whiskers, impressive and well-groomed, spoke to his leonine ancestry.

Beauty he lacked, power he did not. His crimson armour looked so perfectly designed for him that Gendry wondered whimsically if it was Tywin’s true skeleton. The armour and his long sword were impressive, but nothing compared to the ruthless, sharp look in his clear green eyes.

Now, Gendry saw the resemblance between Tywin and his daughter.

‘Your Grace.’ Lannister bowed to King Robert but he lacked humility or deference.

‘My lord Lannister!’ Robert boomed for all gathered to hear how very happy he was to have this guest. ‘How glad we are to see you after such a long time.’

‘Matters at home have required my close attention.’ Tywin’s speech was clipped, efficient, cold. ‘Family will always be my first concern, Your Grace.’

‘I would have it no other way, my lord. Come, we have a fine repast waiting for you-’

‘I thank Your Grace but I would prefer to retire to my rooms for a time. It has been a hard ride.’

Fury fluttered across Robert’s face a moment, less at being contradicted and more at the public nature of it. ‘Of course. You will be well taken care of, I assure you.’

Gendry, his duty done, was now ignored, but he could not mistake the appraising, hate-filled glance he received from Tywin Lannister. He shivered, but was soon distracted.

‘You look like you have just seen a ghost.’

He turned and looked down to see Tyrion coming up the steps, soaked through to the skin. ‘Hullo.’

‘Not pleased to see an old friend? I am disappointed.’

‘No! I mean-’

Tyrion took pity. ‘Yes, dear boy I know what you mean. Now, what does a man have to do to get a drink and a warm body around here?’

‘Follow me. I can help you with the drink. The body you’ll have to find for yourself.’ Gendry led him through the Red Keep, intending to take his friend to his guest room personally.

‘Still on your best behaviour? I am impressed, Your Grace.’

‘When your father is Robert Baratheon and you are yourself a bastard,’ Gendry replied lightly. ‘It’s necessary to remain beyond reproach.’

‘Of course. How do you deal with such a burden?’

Gendry raised an eyebrow as he held open the door to the room given over to Tyrion. It was richly furnished like every room in the Red Keep, but had the further enhancement of a thick Northern fur blanket on the bed.

‘In fond remembrance of our happy days in Winterfell?’ Tyrion asked.

‘If you like. I just thought there was a chill in the air.’

‘I am grateful.’

‘I’ll see you at the feast later?’

‘Of course.’

 

*

 

Gendry limited his explorations while Tywin was present. He had no desire at all to be found by that man, who unnerved him more with every meeting.

He had attended the Small Council meeting, despite not being on it.

‘Lord Tywin was once the Hand of the King,’ Lord Stark explained from his seat at the head of the table, the King being absent again. ‘His counsel is much respected.’

‘Thank you, Lord Stark. Such words from such a man.’

Gendry had no idea whether this was a compliment or an insult but from the barely-perceptible narrowing of Ned’s eyes, he guessed the latter.

‘The King has long been supplementing his coffers with Lannister gold,’ Lord Tywin began without invitation. ‘While my daughter was Queen and her children were heirs to the Iron Throne, this made perfect sense. Now, however, I find myself wondering whether such an arrangement should continue.’

Mutterings around the table. Gendry squirmed under the power of the Lannister gaze.

‘My lord, this is unexpected.’ Stark stalled for time as he thought on the implications, Gendry knew. ‘I do not believe the King has done anything to cause any loss of faith-’

‘He killed my daughter!’ He only raised the volume very slightly, but it was more than enough. ‘I have evidence-’

‘You cannot have evidence of something not done, my lord.’ Stark remained quiet but intense.

‘I have the evidence and I will present it to the whole court!’

‘Please do,’ Stark replied blandly. ‘We enjoy mythical tales.’

Tywin slammed his gloved fist on the table so hard that everything rattled and a cup fell to the floor with a clatter and spill of wine. Renly scowled at having lost a glass of fine red, apparently not moved to solemnity even by the Lion of Lannister.

‘If it is proof of misdeeds,’ Stark continued ‘then I assure you that we can present evidence - real evidence - of the Queen’s own misdoings with-’

Tywin stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. He was uncharacteristically ruffled. He left without a word.

‘You’ll pay for that, Lord Stark,’ Renly advised, now solemn.

‘Aye.’ Ned leaned back in the chair, exhausted. ‘My daughter is not the only Stark with a tongue quicker than her mouth.’

Gendry longed to ask about Arya, but did not dare. ‘What… proof could he have? My father didn’t-’

‘Dear boy,’ Varys mumbled. ‘When you are fabricating a crime, it is absolutely no trouble to find evidence. It is only when trying to prove it real that one must strive.’

 

*

_Now._

In the dim cave under the cottage, Gendry yawned. He was so very, very tired and retelling the story never got easier.

‘You don’t look well.’ Arya was, as usual, quick to point out the obvious.

‘I'm not.’

‘What can be done?’

‘Rest. A warm bed in a dry place. Which is why I’m awake all the hours in a damp cave.’

‘Well then. If you won’t look after yourself, I will!’ She pushed him down to lie on the rickety bed and without pause pulled his boots off his feet and tossed them into a corner. ‘Sleep. I’ll be back with food and waiting for the rest of the story later.’

‘But you insisted-’

‘I changed my mind. Sleep. I’ll have the rest of it later.’

‘But…’

‘Later.’

He was asleep before she could even leave the cave.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the feedback and comments. Always appreciated!
> 
> I slammed this out on the bus and then at home today and though I'd better update quickly before the real world is upon me post-holidays... if you see any hilarious autocorrect errors, let me know!


	15. Telling Tales

_Now_.

 

It was dark when Gendry awoke, which was to be expected in a cave but he always left the tallow candle burning so he could find his way around. He stumbled off the bed and immediately hit his arm against the writing desk.

He swore loudly and sat back down on the bed, hoping that his sight would get used to the dark. It was too dark for that though, and he was just considering the best way to grope over to the way out when a dim light appeared at the end of the tunnel. In a moment or two, Arya Stark appeared bearing fresh candles and a bowl of strong-smelling stew.

‘It’s river badger,’ she said. ‘Only thing they’ve caught in a while. I’ll help them hunt once you’ve told me the rest of the story.’

She set the bowl down on the desk and he grabbed for it, suddenly ravenous.

‘Where was I?’ he asked, knowing that she wouldn’t move another muscle - or allow him to - until he’d finished telling the story of how he’d ended up in the cave in the first place.

‘Tywin Lannister.’

‘Oh. Yes. Well.’

‘Yes, well. Tell me.’

‘What news from aboveground?’

‘Gendry-’

‘I must know! Robb must get the raven-’ he scrabbled on the desk for the letter he’d been writing.

‘We sent it for you.’

‘It wasn’t finished,’ he said, forgetting he had a mouthful of stew.

‘Yes it was, you were being long winded. Which I wouldn’t have expected from such a silent, sullen bull as you.’

‘Bull, am I?’

‘Renly showed me the armour you made while you slept. He showed me a lot of things, actually.’

‘Like?’ He grew suspicious of her manner, light and amused as it was.

‘Oh, just the _army you’re amassing_ on the doorstep to King’s Landing.’

He grinned and took another spoonful. ‘Aye. Why do you think the raven to Robb was so important?’

‘I arrived just in time.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Now, tell me.’

 

*

 

_Some time previously…_

 

The Queen always took on a special glow when she was pregnant, and Gendry was used to the signs well enough that the announcement of her latest came as no surprise.

He was greatly happy for Margaery, who he liked even though he still could not wholly trust someone who took such glee in playing games of courtly intrigue

The pregnancy was already advanced, she said. She had not wanted to announce it until she was quite certain and had not even confided in Grand Maester Pycelle. The Grand Master was quite put out by this and King Robert soon complained about the man whining.

For his part, the King had a new flush of vitality about him which had faded in the weeks since Tywin Lannister’s arrival.

The man had _not_ presented evidence of the first Queen’s murder as he had threatened, but if anything the alternative was worse: he remained at Court as an ever-present malaise upon the King. He continued to exert his right to attend Small Council meetings and would disrupt and sometimes completely undo those meetings with his input.

At all times, he stayed on the right side of polite and could not be faulted for disloyal words or deeds. It was endlessly frustrating.

Ned Stark had aged ten years in the four moons since Lannister’s arrival, deeply unhappy with the interference and the extra strain it placed upon him. Not even granted enough time to see his family, he instead sent Catelyn, Bran and Rickon back to Winterfell.

The parting was sorrowful. Rickon cried furiously at being parted from Prince Gendry, who he proclaimed his very best friend in the world - after Shaggydog. Bran was more circumspect and clearly glad to return to Winterfell where even a crippled boy might have a little more freedom of movement.

Lady Catelyn was not happy to leave her husband and Sansa, who was of marriageable age and more likely to make a good match here than in Winterfell. While Sansa openly and delicately wept, Lady Catelyn gave nothing away, but Gendry noticed her look back towards Ned as the wheelhouse rumbled away, and even the young man could feel the sad yearning she expressed.

‘Come lad,’ Stark cleared his throat. ‘Work to be done.’

They returned to the castle, Sansa sniffling behind them.

There was always work to be done. They were striving to find a financial balance which would keep the crown secure if Lannister made good on his threat to withdraw funds.

It was an exaggeration to say that neither rested while they worked to unravel the many Lannister binds the crown found itself tangled in, but a slight exaggeration only.

Their efforts did not go unnoticed, as Baelish was keen to note at a Small Council meeting. Mercifully, Lannister was not present, apparently choosing instead to dine with Mace Tyrell that evening.

Baelish was as always, casually slouched in his chair. ‘My lord Stark, your fixation with the monarchical ledger is to be admired but it leaves me rather at a loss for things to do.’

‘I’m sure your brothels are grateful for your increased attentions,’ Varys cooed.

‘Stop by and visit,’ Baelish returned. ‘I shall have my best girls made available to you.’

Varys was not put off by his insinuations. ‘I may one day take up that kind invitation, my lord.’

‘Lord Baelish, the King agrees with you,’ Lord Stark interrupted. ‘The king does not believe your talents are being used as effectively as they might. To that end, he asks a specific task of you-’

‘Whatever my king asks, of course.’

‘We have had troubling accounts from the Eyrie. The King asks that you travel to visit with Lady Lysa and report back.’

‘Of course, Lord Stark. I am well-acquainted with Lady Lysa. Indeed, I am well-acquainted with both of Lord Hoster Tully’s daughters.’

Gendry hadn’t believed Baelish could look more insufferably smug, but in that moment he did.

Stark tried to hide the twitch in his fist, but Gendry noticed. ‘Your history at Riverrun is well-known, Lord Baelish.’

‘Of course. I will leave next month, once my-’

‘The king requests you leave at once, my lord.’

Baelish sighed. ‘As the king requests, so goes Littlefinger.’

 

*

 

Stark’s mood and manner improved with the departure of Baelish. The Queen’s pregnancy continued to be the focus of the entire royal court and Gendry was given the peace, quiet and space to continue on his quest to explore all parts of the castle.

As moons passed and the Queen remained in good health, the whole court began to exhale with relief until the time came and they took a collective inhale. When would she be delivered? Would it be a male or female child? Would they survive?

King Robert gave up any pretence of governing and left all responsibility with his Hand and Prince Gendry.

‘I trust you, lad!’ Robert slapped Gendry on the back fondly as he handed him the King’s Seal, tacitly establishing a regency.

‘I am honoured Father, but I should not-’

‘You’ll do a better job that me.’ Robert had taken to drink again. Gendry had long come to understand that his father drank for several reasons but mostly to ignore and hide anxiety.

‘Then I swear I shall be-’

‘Aye lad. Off you trot. When the time comes, you’ll be the first to hear.’

 

*

 

Gendry was woken in the middle of the night by Gorman.

‘The Queen,’ his man said briskly as he laid out some clothes. ‘It has begun. Your father is asking for you.’

‘Right away.’

Between the two of them, Prince Gendry was dressed in double quick time and soon on his way to the King’s Solar.

‘It is too early.’ His father stood staring into the fire, goblet in hand. ‘Unless she has been - no. I could not be cursed with a second faithless queen…’

Robert collapsed against the mantle and his son rushed to help him to a chair. As he settled down, Robert began to weep.

‘Am I so difficult to love? Lyanna… Cersei… Margaery… Oh Lyanna’

‘Queen Margaery would not betray you.’ Gendry could not say that this was absolutely true but hoped it was.

‘You have always been close to her-’ Robert’s fists clenched. ‘My own son would not-’

‘I would not! And I have not. Why do you suddenly doubt?’

‘We went hunting! You remember, I was gone for weeks but now it is too early so I can only believe there was someone else… during my absence.’

‘I would not believe it, father. I would not betray you and if you recall, I was with _you_ during that hunt.’

‘Oh.’ Robert’s glassy gaze focused. ‘Of course. Forgive me, Gendry. My mind is all a muddle.’

Gendry bent and took the goblet from his father’s loose grip. ‘I’ll fetch Ned.’

‘On his way, I’m told. Have a drink, lad.’

‘No, I’m - very well. Thank you.’

‘Pour me another while you’re there. Tis too early… if anything should happen to them. This is my last chance, I can feel it.’

‘No it isn’t,’ Gendry kept his reply direct as he poured two small measures of wine.

‘Lad, I’m tired. So tired. I’ve not been… well.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because you’d fuss like an old woman!’

‘Have you spoken to a maester?’

‘Pycelle… useless old goat. He’s been feeding me some foul tonic and forcing me to rest.’

Was this the reason for his withdrawal from public duties? Gendry looked upon his father’s sallow face with alarm. Was this more than nerves about the survival of a legitimate heir?

‘Something is coming-’ Robert swigged. ‘Something terrible. I feel it in my creaking old bones. Don’t tell me you disagree. I know you and Ned have been conspiring to keep me safe from Lannisters and Greyjoys and Tar-bloody-gareyns.’

‘Don’t forget the wildlings in the North.’

‘Aye. Something is coming.’

‘But what?’

Newly arrived, Ned Stark answered for the King: ‘Winter is coming.’

‘Winter is coming,’ Robert agreed. ‘What news?’

‘The babe is early.’ Ned shrugged out of his cloak. ‘Midwife says too early but she believes all will be well.’

‘And our enemies?’

‘Too quiet. But Seven Hells, Robert! You look dreadful.’

‘I’m fine. Old women, you both.’ It remained true though, that once-mighty warrior Robert Baratheon was dwarfed by the high backed chair he rested on and there was a tremor in the hand holding his wine goblet.

On a hunch, Gendry grabbed the goblet and sniffed. Nothing amiss. ‘Where is this tonic? Do you have any here?’

The King pointed at a small bottle on his desk. Gendry sniffed at it and then handed it over to Lord Stark.

‘Night flowers,’ Stark confirmed. ‘Who is Pycelle working with?’

‘There can be only one man with enough money, power and latent hatred of the king,’ Gendry replied.

‘Lannister.’

‘Aye.’

‘To what end?’ Robert asked. ‘Even if he truly believed me responsible for the fire, revenge is too petty for that man.’

‘There is only one thing Tywin Lannister ever cared about. Power. If it gets him what he feels is revenge, so much the better.’ Stark’s frown was at its most extreme.

A knock on the door startled them all: one of the Queen’s ladies.

‘She is delivered of a healthy child, sire.’

The King leapt to his feet, vigour restored at least for the moment. ‘Take me to them!’

It was a sleepy caravan of the Queen’s lady, the King, his son and the Hand that rushed through the Keep.

They were stopped at the door to the room where Margaery had been confined: the midwife.

‘Please, Your Grace.’

‘What, woman?’

‘The Queen needs a moment to make herself presentable-’

‘I don’t care about that!’ Robert boomed. ‘Let me in!’

‘Your Grace!’

Robert lifted the midwife off her feet and placed her back on them several feet away from the door. ‘No, I will see them now.’

The birthing chamber was in uproar as servants and ladies moved to clean up. Gendry’s stomach churned as he saw basins of bloody water and sheets and towels stained red.

The Queen herself was all serenity, curled up in the huge bed with a swaddled child in her arms. She smiled up at her husband. ‘Come and meet your son, Your Grace.’

A charmed, reverent expression played only briefly across Robert’s face before he replaced it with the neutral ask of The King, but there was no mistaking the tenderness with which he approached his wife and son.

‘His name is Jon,’ Robert declared.

Margaery opened her mouth to suggest something, but closed it immediately.

Robert waved Gendry over. ‘Meet your brother, Gendry.’

Gendry did not want to crowd them, so peered over his father’s shoulder to look. The newborn looked much as any babe, hairless and scrunched up. He was asleep and quite still.

‘Brother,’ Gendry said softly. ‘I pledge myself to your care now and all days.’

The sentiment took him by surprise but was genuine. He bowed to Margaery, told his father his new son was fine indeed, and then let them be.

 

*

 

The King’s intentions regarding the succession were not as clear as some would have believed and some would have liked. In the days following Prince Jon’s birth, the Keep and city beyond buzzed with chattering gossip and whispered rumours.

Gendry kept out of the way. He was no fool and understood that his position was now uncertain and reliant on the judgement of his father, a man he knew was subject to whim and mercurial mood.

Seven days after the birth, the King summoned all to Court. Gendry had never seen the Great Hall so crowded, not even for the wedding.

The King strode into the Hall and took the Iron Throne. He sat and watched with a broad smile as Queen Margaery entered followed by Prince Jon carried by his nursemaid.

‘The future of Westeros is assured!’ the King announced. ‘This is Jon Willas Baratheon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.’

The assemblage applauded and cheered their approval.

It was much too good to last. From amongst the crowd came a voice - intentionally masked and distorted by the noise and distance: ‘What of the succession, Your Grace?’

Silence - immediate and total - descended upon the Hall. Not one man or woman made a noise, not even a shuffled foot or cough.

Prince Gendry held his breath.


	16. Seven Hells

In the silent moments before his father spoke, Gendry found his truth confirmed: he did not exactly _mind_ the idea of being a king, but he had no special desire for a crown.

All present knew that the answer King Robert gave would determine the wellbeing of the Seven Kingdoms and had the very great potential to shape the future for generations to come.

The King’s shoulders slumped minutely, and then he stood straight. ‘The question of succession has been one of importance to me for years. I have been blessed with two wonderful sons, one near-grown and one infant. I have no doubt that Gendry will be the very best of regents for his young brother. If!’ He paused dramatically, another moment of silence. “Such a thing is needed. I have no intention of dying for many years to come, so if questions of succession continue, it must surely be treason!'

Quiet mutterings, fevered and yet muted. He had given a half-answer of sorts and resolved nothing. The King coughed heavily and stalked out towards his apartments.

The frustration of the not-quite-an-answer flowed once he was gone. The Great Hall filled with noise again and after the beautiful quiet, Gendry’s head pounded and he shut his eyes tight.

A hand gripped his shoulder. Ned stood beside him, a kind but tight smile upon his lips. ‘Follow me, Your Grace.’

They travelled through the Keep as quickly as they could without appearing to rush, until reaching the relative safety of the Hand’s Solar.

‘There is much going on,’ said Ned.

‘That much is plain.’

‘The tonic is poison.’

‘I thought as much.’ Gendry rubbed his tired face to feel the blood rush a moment. ‘Who?’

‘Only one person. You must be cautious.’

‘I’m always cautious.’

‘Get some sleep, if you can. The next days may be tumultuous.’  
  
*  
  
_Now._  
  
Gendry stopped talking. Arya had been so caught up in his tale, told in his rich tenor with calm rational thinking.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘I have to get out of this bloody cave.’

‘But-’

‘ _Please_ Arya, I need the sun on my face when I tell you the next part. Otherwise I might get sucked into the darkness and lose my way back.’

Such poetic talk from him was surprising enough that she agreed. She sniffed theatrically. ‘You should have a bath, too. You stink.’

Gendry rolled his eyes. ‘Come on then.’

She followed him up into the cottage. Brienne was on watch and frowned at Gendry.

‘It is not safe, Your Grace-’

‘Arya will protect me.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ she retorted.

‘You will until I’ve finished the story.’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Your Grace,’ Brienne continued. ‘At least take your sword.’

Gendry rolled his eyes again. ‘Yes, Brienne.’

His sword was leaning against the door frame, just inside.

Arya had not seen it there before but her eyes widened: ‘Ice!’

He nodded solemnly and took a bottle of ale in his free hand. ‘It will be Robb’s when we finally reunite. Come on.’

She followed him out across the small pasture into a loosely wooded copse by the river. She watched open-mouthed as King Gendry Baratheon, First of His Name, Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, the First Men, the Andals and everything betwixt and between, pulled off his shirt and breeches, and jumped into the cold river without so much as a glance back at her.

He remained under just long enough to worry her before emerging in a swooshing spray of river water.

‘Do you disrobe in front of all the girls?’ she asked, once she’d found her voice.

‘No.’

‘Should I be honoured or horrified?’

‘Neither. You said I stank and you were right. I know you won’t let me out of your sight until the story is told.’

He climbed out of the water and used his shirt to dry off. Unthinking, she handed him the bottle of ale.

‘What happened to my father, Gendry?’ Arya hated how childish and small she appeared and sounded in the moment.

‘I have to…’ he cleared his throat and took a swig from the bottle. ‘Come and sit in the sun while I dry off.’

‘You’re putting it off.’

‘Yes I am.’

‘ _Please_ just tell me.’

He found a rock to sit on which caught the sun but was suitably sheltered from view for safety. Another swig from the bottle…

‘All right. After my father’s pronouncement, things calmed a little. The Queen was fixated on her son, which gave your father and me a chance to speak to mine about the draughts Grand Maester Pycelle had been giving him. He stopped drinking it but pretended to do so. It went into his chamber pot, and so he began to improve. He was weakened though, and asked me to attend some Small Council meetings on his behalf. And then, it happened.’

*  
  
Gendry woke abruptly to a large hand over his mouth and darkness all around.

 ‘Shush!’ It was Ned Stark. ‘Your father has been killed.’

Gendry leapt out of bed. ‘I must go to him –’ 

‘You cannot. Word has already spread that you are responsible.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Don't light a candle, you'll be seen.’

Gendry dressed by no more light than the waxing moon gave. ‘So what do I do?’ 

‘The castle is not secure.’

That much Gendry had already noticed – voices raised all around, the racket of chaos and the unmistakable whiff of a blaze nearby. 

‘What's to be done?’ 

Ned rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Get you out of King’s Landing and safe until all is calm and we know the truth.’

‘I want to see him.’ Quote you cannot. You'll be seen.’

‘No I won't. Follow me.’ Gendry gathered up the few possessions he felt important enough to take, including his hammer, and led Ned into the secret passage. 

Through the peephole he saw his father dead on his bed and quite alone. 

‘Why is he not guarded?’ 

‘A dead king needs no guards.’ 

Gendry used the concealed door to enter and went to his father. At first he looked to be asleep, but the blood-soaked robes and bedsheets told another story. 

‘Who did this?’ The words echoed in the deathly room. 

Ned remained in the doorway. ‘I do not yet know. The alarm was raised some time ago via guard screaming “The Prince has killed the King!”’ 

Prince Gendry – if he was still prince at all – knew in that moment that Tywin Lannister had moved against them at last.

‘I just hope my father didn't die thinking I was responsible.’

‘No lad, I’m sure he didn’t. Now, we must get you safe.’ 

‘Where can I possibly be safe?’ 

‘There is one place. Come now.’ 

They crept through the channels to the Hand’s Solar where they paused only long enough to retrieve Lord Stark’s greatsword Ice. 

‘Take this,’ he said. ‘You will need weapons and – never mind.’

‘I cannot take Ice, my Lord! It is your family's-’

‘Give it to Robb. You must go North when you can.’ 

They continued through the castle to the dungeons, at which point Ned Stark, always most honourable, chose to save the life of the man who had maimed his son. 

A broken cell door later and Jaime Lannister shuffled after them, mumbling vacantly. Only a few sounds were understandable: “Cersei”, mostly. 

At the place where the Keep sewers opened into a secluded inlet of the Blackwater, Gendry was reunited with his Uncle Renly. 

‘I have two fast horses,’ Renly grasped his nephew’s shoulder fondly. ‘I'll take Ser Jaime for the first leg of the journey.’ 

Renly scowled at the sight of the King-slaying sister-lover but made no explicit objection. 

‘He does not deserve what they would do.’ Lord Stark told him, and between the Martells, Tyrells and a father who would kill him rather than admit the truth, Gendry knew he was right.

‘We must be gone well before dawn.’ 

Gendry briefly embraced Ned, the first real father figure he'd ever known. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘May the Old Gods and the New smile upon you, lad.’

The prince mounted the unfamiliar steed and, with only the briefest of glances back, found himself fleeing King's Landing for the second time in his life. At least this time he knew why he was fleeing.  
  
*  
  
‘They said I killed my father,’ Gendry choked up a little. ‘And then when little Jon Willas was found suffocated two months later, they said it was me again.’ 

‘Where did you go?’ 

‘Behind the impenetrable walls of Storm’s End, we made our attempts to understand what had happened. Then the news about Jon. That dear little boy had done nothing wrong!’  
Gendry wept fitfully. Arya stood awkwardly by, not an idea how to help. 

‘What about my father, Gendry?’ 

‘That is something I cannot answer. I was not there.’

‘Who can?’

‘Loras.’

‘Come on then.’ 

Loras and Renly were in one of the tents hidden away amongst the trees of the forest and were faintly irritated at the interruption, but Arya would wait no longer.  
  
*  
  
With the King dead, the Prince Regent the proclaimed murderer and the heir only weeks old, the Small Council looked to themselves to rule. 

The Queen attended with her father and brother, and in her grief said little except to name Tywin Lannister the latest Hand of the King. 

‘You have great experience," Queen Margaery spoke quietly but with certainty. ‘We are glad you are here.’ 

‘I am happy to offer my meagre talents to you, Your Grace. The first order of business must be that we deal with the perpetrators of the King’s murder.’

If anyone thought he acted with unseemly haste, nobody said, and he was not finished.

‘Ned Stark the traitor is in the Black Cells. His execution is set for six days’ time.’

‘Six days!’ Mace Tyrell was shocked at the speed. 

‘Enough time for ravens to reach all corners of the Seven Kingdoms.’

‘The Starks are powerful in the North, my Lord,’ said Pycelle. ‘They will be aggrieved at such an act.’ 

‘Then they too are traitors. Anyone found to have assisted the Bastard Prince will suffer the same fate.’

‘Even your own son my Lord?’ asked Varys. ‘Ser Jamie went out with them.’

‘Even my son. His crimes are numerous and he is no longer fit for the name Lannister.’ 

‘I wish there was another way,’ said the Queen. ‘There has already been so much death and pain.’ 

‘We must be strong, Your Grace. King Robert allowed his enemies to succeed. We must not give in to any feminine weakness.’

Margaery nodded to him. ‘Of course, my lord.'

Lannister smiled at her, and it was one of the few smiles in the world capable of causing a heart to stop beating. ‘You may feel safe leaving the Kingdom in my safe-keeping, Your Grace. A queen need not concern herself –"

Queen Margaery’s gaze turned flinty. ‘I am here on behalf of my son and shall continue as such, my lord. I defer to your wisdom and experience, but my place is here until my son can take his own seat.’ 

Loras smiled. Mace nodded solemnly. Pycelle looked vaguely ill.  
  
*  
  
Six days later, as the moon was at its fullest, a cry went up shattering the relative peace of the night.

It was no guard or servant, but Queen Margaery herself. It was a pained screech, horrified and beyond conscious thought.

Prince Jon Willas lay in his crib, as dead as his father and the ancestors who had gone before. The Queen crouched next to the crib, gripping its side, barely able to breathe from her hysteria.

‘Hold her down,’ commanded Lord Tywin as he entered the Queen’s Chamber. 

Two of his personal guards attempted to fulfil the order but her grief was so wild that three more had to join.

‘Maester, something to calm her Grace before she injured herself.’

Pycelle shuffled to her and forced a long draught of milk of the poppy into her mouth.

‘No!’ She spat it out best she could, but it was already working. ‘Is this your doing, Lord Tywin? Was I not compliant and obedient?’

‘No, madam.’ His eyes were as hard and dark as dragon glass. ‘Another draught for her own safety, Grand Maester,’ 

Pycelle obeyed and soon Queen Margaery was subdued. Once more, the Royal Chambers were shrouded in grief.  
  
*  
  
The news stunned all who heard it as the gory details swept across the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Gendry was blamed of course, but anyone paying attention noted that this official report was not gaining much traction with the people.

Alongside the official story, rumours, stories, tales and outright lies swirled along roads, rivers and streams into the taverns and inns of Westeros.

‘Everyone knows he’s hiding like a coward behind his uncle’s castle walls.’

‘Crept out in the middle of the night, did he?’

A new official notice was sent out two days after the death of the little prince.

 _“The Queen has been charged with adultery, king-slaying, kin-slaying and killing her own son that the Bastard Prince might seize the throne for himself. She will be tried in front of the Seven and if found guilty, will be executed as a traitor of the highest order.”_  
  
*  
  
Prince Jon Willas’ death created a curious power vacuum. Nobody not currently wanted for treason had a good claim to the throne. Whispers that Daenerys Targaryen would be summoned from Essos were stamped out with brutal efficiency by the Goldcloaks.

In front of a great audience of confused worthies and notable, Tywin Lannister stood in front of the Iron Throne, and for a moment the assembled people thought he might sit and proclaim himself king.

‘A great treason has been perpetrated against the Crown, by those closest to it. The Bastard Prince, Lord Stark the Unworthy Hand, the wicked Rose Queen-’

At this, Olenna Tyrell harrumphed softly, but MaceTyrell shushed her before Lannister could notice.

‘There is only one man suitable-’

‘You, Lord Tywin?’

His glare could’ve killed on the spot and no doubt the speaker was glad for the anonymity of the crowd.

‘Prince Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone!’

Silence. Unimpressed, doubting.

Lannister’s glare grew colder. ‘He is the rightful heir to King Robert in light of the conspiracy uncovered and will be here within a week.’  
  
*  
  
‘It was all I could do to escape with my head,’ Loras told them. ‘I wanted to stay and fight for my sister.’

He let several fat, guilty tears fall from his eyes. ‘Grandmother forced me onto the back of a cart with nothing but my sword and the armour I was wearing. I could not go to Highgarden of course, and it was obvious to me that I should join Renly.’

Arya ignored the soft squeeze Renly gave Loras’ hand. ‘What of my father?’

‘The news coming out of King’s Landing is sparse and often contradictory,’ Renly told her. ‘But we have heard from those who joined us since.’

‘My father!’ she barked. ‘Where is he? News in Tyrosh was that he was in the Black Cells.’

Tears now rolled from Renly's bright eyes.‘Not anymore, child. Not anymore.’  
  
*  
  
Most of King’s Landing turned out to see the judgement of Ned Stark and Margaery Tyrell, regardless of personal opinion.

‘The trial was a joke,’ muttered one fellow to another.

‘The reign of King Tywin is off to a bloody start,’ said a third. 

‘Good riddance to the filth!’

‘Stark was the one who took the Bastard in. It’s all him! He always wanted the Iron Throne for himself!’

‘Oh, don’t be daft! He and King Robert were as brothers. Lannister is-’ the man went silent at sight of Lord Tywin himself.

Lannister had waited for his dour king-in-waiting before the executions. Stannis, the surprise king, took his place next to his Hand at the Great Sept of Baelor to oversee the executions. His much whispered-of Red Woman stayed in the shadows.

If the crowd expected a grand speech from their new almost-king, they were disappointed.

‘Let my brother’s murder be avenged. We will punish anyone who took part in this great conspiracy. We will hunt them done for none is safe.’

That said, he shrank bank and for all that Stannis tried to look the part, he seemed insignificant in his dark Baratheon clock when set beside the tall majesty of the Lion of Lannister.

Ned Stark was dragged out by guards but as soon as he was on his own feet he stood tall and proud. ‘I am guilty of no crime!’

Defiant honour radiated off him, in spite of the physical toll taken by so long in the Black Cells.

‘Prince Gendry is guilty of nothing, not even the circumstances of his birth. He will be a good king to you all. Winter is coming!’

He knelt and his head was detached with haste before he could say more. In such ways did great wolves die.

His hard words and dignified death rattled many of the assemblage and the cheer when his head was raised up was muted, even quiet.

The Queen was given no chance to speak. Stripped almost naked in an attempt to humiliate prior to death, she was pushed down to the block and barely given a chance to send a prayer to the Seven before her head was parted from the rest of her body by the executioner’s heavy sword.

Nobody had the heart to cheer this death. She had been too beautiful, too kind to the small folk and they had pitied her the loss of a son more than blamed her. Few could believe the Rose Queen capable of killing her own babe.

Dissatisfied by the response, the King and his Hand swept off towards the Red Keep without fanfare.

The crowd was left to disperse at the mercy of the Goldcloaks, whose new Lannister-appointed leaders had no patience for dissent.  
  
*  
  
Ravens announcing the executions were swiftly replied with Northern declarations of independence. Where there had been no king, now there were two. The Young Wolf had the North and the Riverlands to stand for him and his vow to avenge the murder of his father. 

All looked to Storm’s End.

 _“Lord Renly Baratheon wishes it known that his nephew Gendry is rightful king, innocent of any crime. He stands by Robb Stark, King in the North, as he seeks justice for his murdered father. He wishes his brother would go home to Dragonstone where he belongs.”_  
  
*  
  
‘Loras came to me,’ Renly explained. ‘His father remained in King’s Landing with Lannister.’

‘He is afraid,’ Loras interrupted. ‘He is not bad, just cowardly. I could not stay after what they did to my sister.’

‘What of Robb?’ Arya asked, biting her lip to prevent the sobs she wanted to let tear from her throat. Father is dead.

‘His army is making its way South. They had a great victory at the Twins.’

‘Oh?’

‘Theon attended the Late Walder Frey and was set upon by the Freys despite Guest Right. Apparently he has a smart mouth which they objected to.’

‘Sounds like Theon,’ Arya joked in spite of herself.

Renly smiled a little. ‘It gave Robb a reason to take the Twins.’

‘But nobody has ever!’

‘Robb sent a small force across the river downstream and they got in dressed as travelling musicians on the other side. Opened the bloody doors like it was nothing.’

‘I heard Walder Frey’s head is still dangling above the portcullis,’ Loras added.

‘And Theon?’

‘Badly beaten but alive, last we heard,’ Gendry told her. ‘I wouldn't be surprised if he went in with the exact task of provoking the old goat into something rash.’

‘So…’ Arya thought a moment. ‘Robb holds the North all the way to the Neck?’

‘And beyond.’ Renly pushed his hair away from his face. ‘The Riverlands under your uncle have sworn allegiance and the Blackfish leads a force against Lannister there.’

‘But my father-’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Gendry said. ‘I don’t know there is to do presently. We are not strong enough to take King’s Landing by force and they will not relinquish otherwise.’

‘So that’s how it stands…’ Arya took a long deep breath in, held it several seconds and released it slowly. ‘What can I do?’

‘Very soon we will meet up with Robb’s army,’ Renly told her. ‘First we must consolidate our own forces. I am riding to some of the minor houses of the Crownlands soon to recruit them. Many are unhappy with the lies told and the taxes being levied upon them.’

Arya had taken in a great deal of information in a short period of time. With the silence that followed Renly's last comment, the total settled on her in a crush of pain, fury and grief. She ran from the tent and kept running through the trees into the thickest part of the forest.

She was lost almost immediately, of course. When she could run no more - and endurance was impressively trained into her - Arya realised she had no idea where she was. It would be nice to think that she had run in a straight line but knew she’d been far too erratic for that.

In the near-silence of the quiet forest, Arya summoned all her training to find her equilibrium again.  
In the moment before calm took control again, she knew what she would do. If only she could get back to the cottage to tell anyone!

She turned slowly, observing her surroundings in an attempt to understand, but it was no good. She was definitely, entirely lost.

Somewhere nearby, a wolf howled long, mournful and low. Most people would shudder at the sound but Arya just smiled. Several other wolves responded but none with such a sound. The wolf howled again, this time much closer.

Arya closed her eyes and held out a hand. She took several deep, long breaths. When she looked up again, there was a huge grey direwolf stood no more than a few feet away. Its golden eyes gleamed and it almost appeared that the wolf was smiling.

‘Nymeria.’ Arya fell to her knees to embrace the wolf and had no fear that the savage beast would do her harm.

Nymeria, so long lost, lunged affectionately at her old friend. She had reached maturity in the time since their painful parting and seemed almost as tall as Arya herself.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Arya mumbled into Nymeria’s fur. ‘I only sent you away to save you, I swear.’

Arya knew that that the wolf understood as well as she understood the protective warmth Nymeria had for her.

‘So… can you help me get back to where I’m going? I managed to get lost.’

Now she knew Nymeria was smiling as she trotted away from Arya, who could only follow and wonder what the reaction from her friends would be when she showed up with a direwolf.

For the first time since leaving the cottage by the river, Arya felt something that felt just a little like hope.


	17. Winter, Pending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing much and quite a lot happens...

The arrival of a fully grown wild direwolf in camp inspired the terror and shock Arya knew it would, and she felt just a little guilty for finding the reactions so amusing.

Gendry showed absolutely no fear, and it took Arya a moment to remember that he had been there when the wolf pups were found and had spent time with Shaggy and Rickon in King’s Landing. She scowled faintly, her wolfish possessiveness high, to consider that in actual fact, Gendry had met Nymeria before she had.

‘Are you well, Arya?’ he asked, reaching out to greet the wolf. She let out a gentle growl and nuzzled his hand. His fearlessness with the wolf - who was at least 20 times the size he’d last seen her - earned Gendry yet more respect from his followers.

‘My father is dead and one of my dearest friends has been accused of terrible crimes. My brother is waging a war he might not win. I have no idea about Winterfell or the rest of my family and my mentor is either dead or dying.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I will have my revenge, and theirs.’

A few of the men in earshot did not quite understand _who_ Arya Stark had become in her absence from Westeros, and traded apparently-knowing, amused smirks.

‘I suppose you have some things to teach us?’ Loras asked her sincerely, which caused the cynical men to laugh out loud.

‘Perhaps,’ Arya turned her flinty grey eyes on the amused fellows. ‘I’m sure I have much to learn in return.’

‘Aye, girl.’ One of the fellows was tall, broad and ruddy of both face and hair. He wore the sigil of House Darry, and had by looks spent more time lately in inns than training yards. ‘There’s plenty I could teach a bonny lass such as you.’

Arya shrugged, smiled just a smidgen in the direction of the two Baratheons, and pulled Needle from its resting place at her belt. ‘Please do.’

Chuckles all around. Her smile increased, and after all that had happened in the short time since making land near Storm’s End, her entire being itched and yearned for a good fight.

The ruddy faced fellow shrugged off his cloak and unsheathed his own large, heavy sword. She bit back a sharp remark about sword size.

‘Teach her a lesson, Colam!’ someone shouted.

Colam preened a little for the audience’s benefit. ‘That I will.’

Arya took up her stance, presenting only a slice of her side to Colam, Needle high and balanced. She kept her weight in the balls of her feet, but ready to fall back onto her heels if needed.

Syrio had known a hundred different fighting styles and had taught her to counter each of them.

_“A girl will never be big and strong as a bull, but will win every time just the same.”_

Arya took a step forward.

Before the onlookers had time to place all their bets, Arya had Colam on his back on the ground, Needle pressed against his throat.

Arya was disappointed that her opponent was so unequal; he was embarrassed that a young girl had beaten him both soundly and quickly.

‘Arya!’ Gendry called. ‘Come and eat with me.’

For a moment she looked like she might object, but followed without a glance back at Colam or his angry friends.

‘I’d appreciate you not causing rifts within my army,’ he said placidly as they walked. ‘It’ll be hard enough taking on Tywin Lannister without in-fighting.’

‘Not my fault,’ she sulked. It was easy to fall back into her old Westerosi habit of acting like a petulant brat… too easy. She took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry. It’s been a long time since anyone viewed me as less than I am for being born a woman.’

Gendry turned his head sharply. ‘It won’t happen again… but we are comrades in arms here. We must all trust each other.’

‘Oh Gendry,’ she scoffed. ‘If I learnt anything from my flight from King’s Landing, it’s that I really can’t trust anyone.’

‘Will you tell me everything?’

‘One day. Perhaps.’

 

*

 

The challenge by Colam had the positive effect of bringing Arya’s reputation as a water dancer to the fore, and combined with the wolf that never left her side, she was left quite well alone. Except for Colam, who proclaimed himself her sworn shield, and respectfully asked to train alongside her. It turned out that, when not being a cocky sod, Colam was a fine soldier and one day would be counted amongst her closest allies.

Days and nights passed, filled with training by day and strategy by night. Renly returned to Storm’s End with a promise to send provisions and to act as a point of contact for the correspondence coming from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms.

Meanwhile, news of Robb’s progress South gave them hope of victory with one hand and gave terror of failure with the other. All the while, Gendry grew more frustrated by his enforced concealment.

Loras was one of the few who could appease him in his increasingly-frequent impotent rages against his confinement. ‘You simply do not have the forces to go cavorting around the Seven Kingdoms!’

Gendry’s shoulders dropped. ‘I know.’

‘Renly is doing his best to call your supporters to you, but they cannot do so prematurely,’ Loras reminded him.

‘I also know that.’

‘I would march on King’s Landing tonight if I thought it would be of any benefit. Come on, let’s drink ourselves to oblivion.’

Not for the first time, Gendry was struck by how much older than he Loras seemed, although only two years separated them. Life in the Great Houses prematurely aged a fellow…

 

*

 

Arya had a tent of her own near the river, where she could fall asleep listening to the water nearby just as she had by the Rhoyne. Most days she worked so hard that it was all she could do to find her bedroll, but on this night, sleep would not come. She curled up, the blanket twisted around her, and could not stop a flood of painful thoughts that swept through her mind.

She missed her father with a pain so keen that it took on physical form. Perhaps if she had been there… Perhaps if she had stayed… Perhaps if she and Syrio had returned… She missed Syrio’s steely-yet-kind serenity and his brilliance as a teacher. He had not just taught her to fight, he had taught her to think and criticise the world for herself. They had spent their nights discussing history and politics, not just that of Westeros but the whole world.

She had wanted to run with a Khalasar, wanted to see the Pyramids of Meereen and the mysteries of Asshai but instead was back in a place where people called her “my lady” and assumed she was good for nothing more than sitting down looking pretty. Except that she was not pretty enough-

That thought brought her to Sansa. In truth Arya had not particularly missed her sister in the past three years, but she did hope her older sister was happy. She missed Bran’s sweetness and Rickon’s wildness, even missed her mother’s scolding’s. She missed Robb’s bravery and Jon… it had been so long since he had left for the Wall and she for the South that even his face seemed faded in her memory, but her fierce love for her brother remained so.

Most of all, she missed her father, because she would never see him again. The Old Gods and the New combined would not reunite them in this life.

‘FIRE!’

Arya leapt from her bed, alert and awake, Needle at the ready.

Outside, the men had split between those putting out the fire in the cottage’s thatched roof, and those fighting the scouting party responsible for the flames. She easily dispatched one of their opponents before being ordered to help with the fire.

The scouting party wore Lannister red and were dealt with easily, but they represented a much worse problem: if their camp was no longer safe, where could they go?

‘There’s one place, Your Grace.’ The suggestion came from Lem, who Arya knew had been with Gendry since almost the beginning and seemed a good enough egg - if rough and ready.

Gendry sighed. ‘The Brotherhood don’t want to help me. They want to do away with all kings.’

Arya wasn’t sure, but thought he muttered something under his breath: _“they’re not necessarily wrong.”_

Still, the fact remained that their secret camp would lose its secrecy very soon and so all possessions were gathered up and they set off through the Kingswood to find a new home.

Gendry did not dare risk taking his still small group of loyal followers into unnecessary danger. After a brief consultation with Loras and some of the senior Stormlanders, he chose to take a south-west route, using the mountains as (admittedly minimal) defensive cover.

They were at least guaranteed a less-hostile reception at High garden - if they could make it that far.

The troop of horses and riders made quick work of the distance, but none felt easy until the second day of riding, when they had yet to encounter anyone on the journey.

Gendry had not said much since their leaving and Arya rode up beside him.

‘Will we be safe at Summerhall?’ Arya asked, her knowledge of the South quite what it should be, or even what it had been before her eastern interlude.

‘As safe as we can be anywhere.’ Gendry’s brows had furrowed into a frown since the fire and not yet returned to their proper place on his face. ‘I cannot be sure of support, not even those who loved my father.’

‘Why not?’ Arya was offended on his behalf.

Gendry shrugged. ‘I’m a bastard. I’m an alleged kin-and-king-slayer. They don’t want to rile Stannis. They don’t like war. They can’t afford it. I don’t know, take your pick.’

‘Sorry I asked.’

‘Hopefully we can get to Highgarden without too much trouble. Then I won’t snap at you like a petulant child. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s… I’m not as tired of this life as you are.’

‘This is the ninth time we’ve had to run since I was smuggled out of the city. I’m so tired of running. At least on the Street of Steel I knew I belonged there.’

‘Do you wish you’d never been found?’

Gendry rubbed at the growth of beard on his face and yawned. ‘Sometimes. Then I wonder how different my life would be, and so how different my father’s life would have been… and then the kingdom. Sounds arrogant, I know, to think that I could be of such importance to the world.’

Arya picked at the hem of her tunic. ‘Syrio used to say that we are all drops of water in the great ocean, each with the power to change the direction of the tide.’

‘He sounds like an interesting sort of person.’

‘He is. Was, maybe… How long until Summerhall?’

‘We’ve got to pass Felwood first. I don’t want to stop there. Don’t trust them.’

‘Send me in. I could pass for a wandering child and get food and news.’

‘Too dangerous.’

‘Of course it isn’t. You have so few advantages that you really can’t afford to waste any. Let me help.’ It was not phrased as a question or a choice.

 

*

 

Arya stumbled up to the Felwood gatehouse just as dusk fell. She was muddy and limped slightly.

‘Who goes there?’

She was surprised at the swift aggression from the guard: Felwood was a minor house away from common traffic.

‘I beg your pardon, Ser.’ Her cough rattled her chest. ‘I had a fall and sprained my ankle. I was hoping to reach my grandmother’s home before dark but I shan’t make it and-’ she bit back a sob, ‘It is now impossible. Please, Ser, I only ask for a place to rest my head until morning.’

‘Tisn’t up to me, child. Get thee gone.’

‘Please, Ser.’

Arya provided such a picture of injured innocence that the guard relaxed slightly.

‘I’ll have to send for the Chatelaine.’

‘I am grateful to you.’

He called up to the main gate and after a few minutes, another guard appeared to escort Arya to the Chatelaine, an elderly but formidable looking woman who towered over her.

‘Who are you, child?’

Arya yawned. ‘Excuse me, m’lady. I am on my way to my grandmother but fell in the forest. I humbly ask if you might have somewhere for me to rest until morning.’

The Chatelaine’s blazing blue eyes burned into her for a moment, then warmed. ‘Of course, child. We must get some food into you - there is nothing of you.’

‘I am grateful, most grateful.’

The Chatelaine hustled Arya into the warm kitchen. ‘The Master is in the capital, so there is no harm to you being here for the night. There’s stew for you to take your fill of while I fetch for our maester to look at your leg.’

Arya made all the suitable noises of appreciation and took the chance to have a hot meal, all the while glad that she had taken the trouble to actually sprain her ankle.

The maester was even older than the Chatelaine, a skeleton of a man whose hands trembled as he examined her. ‘Two days’ rest, I shall suggest.’

‘Two days?’ Arya asked. ‘I cannot-’

‘You can stay here until then.’ The Chatelaine, for all her fearsome appearance, was displaying far more kindness than expected.

However, Arya needed to get back to Gendry and the men. ‘I thank you, but my grandmother will worry-’

‘No decision will be made until the morning. I will prepare a bed for you.’

The Chatelaine’s generosity did not extend to a guest room. Instead, a hay mattress was laid near enough to the kitchen fire to take advantage of the warmth. That way, the guest would not have access to the house to steal anything…

‘I will never forget your kindness, mistress,’ Arya told the Chatelaine with sincere solemnity as she settled onto the mattress.

‘Sleep, child.’

Arya closed her eyes, but she did not sleep. Instead she listened to the once-familiar sounds of a house going to bed for the night.

When all was quiet, she got up and crept with all the unnoticed silence of a Faceless Man into the house proper. The master was not at home, so she felt safe enough to seek out his solar.

Therein she found several raven messages strewn across the desk:

_“Mace unhappy. TL requests your presence.”_

_“Mace pacified. TL demands your presence.”_

_“If you do not come to city, you will be dragged.”_

Arya had no idea what relationship the master of House Fell had those currently ruling Westeros, but the messages did not indicate a friendliness towards Prince Gendry. _King Gendry_. She could not find much more information without disturbing the room so returned to her own makeshift bed, mind full of thoughts.

 

*

 

The next morning, before Arya could sneak away, The Chatelaine came to her. It was so early that none of the household were awake, before even the first kitchen fire had been lit. Arya shivered in the cold, and under the Chatelaine’s gaze.

‘You are Arya Stark, I think.’

‘I am no-’

‘You are Arya Stark. Even if I did not remember you from your ill-advised blabber before your father secreted you away wherever you’ve been, you are too much the image of the equally impulsive Lyanna Stark. Fear not child, you are safe with me.’

‘My lady-’

‘My husband Lord Fell is in King’s Landing now, being carped at by Tywin Lannister and Stannis Baratheon. That is not a combination I find comforting. Now child, have you found King Gendry yet?’

‘My lady-’

‘Never mind, I know you will not answer. When you leave here, it will be with a small handcart and as much as you can carry. Just promise me that when you find the King, you will waste no time in running _that man_ through with a sword.’

Arya assumed she meant Tywin Lannister. ‘My lady, I cannot account for your kindness.’

‘I am not kind. Taxes have risen sharply since King Robert died. The kingdoms are in uproar and trade has been disrupted. I like money and nice things, and I cannot have either in times of war. I knew the prince well enough to know he will lead Westeros wisely. Find him, and your brother, and sort this bloody mess out.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Arya left Felwood an hour later with the promised cart loaded to bursting with provisions, and a sack on her back full of freshly plucked chickens. She took a leisurely route back to Gendry, lest she be followed.

They had a small feast of sorts: men happy to be fed properly for the first time in too long.

‘Lady Fell said her husband was called back to King’s Landing two moons ago but was not happy. He supports Stannis because he’s King Robert’s brother but he is not impressed by him. Stannis is ruling by fear, of course, because nobody could love that man.’

‘Shireen does.’ Gendry chewed a small piece of potato. He was ravenously hungry but would not take more than anyone else.

Arya rolled her eyes. ‘Shireen must be soft in the head.’

‘She isn’t. She’s just… isolated.’

‘You met her once and you know her oh so well?’ Arya raised her Eyebrow of Scepticism at him.

‘We wrote to each other. Having cousins is new to me.’

Arya thought about this. ‘I do not have any cousins.’

Gendry tore a piece of bread off his chunk and tossed it in the air to catch in his mouth. ‘You will soon. Your uncle Edmure married Roslin Frey after Robb took the Neck. A token gesture towards the remaining Freys - not many, it must be said - and Robb says they are fond of each other.’

‘I do not know Uncle Edmure. I suppose I should care. Family, duty, honour-’

‘You cannot love people you do not know,’ Gendry mused briefly before changing the subject. ‘We should reach Summerhall soon. We can rest there before… I don’t even know what.’

‘We must join with Robb.’ Arya kicked at the dirt. ‘We’ve been hiding long enough.’

Gendry scowled at the implication, not least because he agreed with her. ‘There are not enough of us.’

‘We don’t need quantities of men if we have the best soldiers. Robb brings the North with him.’

‘Perhaps. I must have real news before I make any decisions.’

‘Is he a good king, my brother? It has been so long since I’ve seen him, I don’t think I’d know him. Or anyone.’

Gendry reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘Robb is the best of young kings. Even if refuses to call himself such.’

‘I don’t understand why he does that.’

‘He says that Stannis wouldn’t be so foolish to kill Ned Stark. He says that Ned Stark can’t be killed like that, so he must still be a prince. Renly says the small folk appreciate the gesture, even though most of the highborn think it’s either foolish or calculated. I think he really means it. I wouldn’t believe it had Loras not witnessed it.’

‘Then Robb’s an idiot. Anyone can be killed at any time.’

There passed a moment of silence. _Anyone can be killed at any time._

The leaves in the trees rustled.


	18. Summerhall

Arya and Gendry both froze as still as statues, although all around was now absolutely silent. Blue and grey eyes narrowed in front of calculating brains, each considering the potential danger and consequences of their potential actions.

The leaves rustled again, and this time neither hesitated. Gendry leapt to his feet and as he did, pulled Ice from its resting place at his hip. Arya’s Syrio-trained reflexes were even quicker and she came close to taking off the head of a young boy.

‘Begging your pardon,’ he trembled at how close to death he had come, and at such a young age. ‘I bring news from a friend.’

‘Give it to me then, boy,’ Gendry replied, rattled into rudeness and a little embarrassed to have overreacted. His heart had almost shrunk by half when it constricted with fear and was now only slowly unwrapping itself into normal function.

The quivering lad handed him a parchment roll.

Gendry’s raised eyebrows piqued Arya’s curiosity. ‘Who is it?’

‘I think it must be… Lord Dayne?’

He showed her the seal and her eyebrows also lifted. ‘Star and sword… who else could it be? Open it then, stupid!’

He did, and read the words contained within. ‘He would meet with me at Summerhall.’

‘He knows we are headed in that direction?’

‘I don’t believe so. More that it is a good location for all the reasons we have also chosen it… Renly has been working hard, it seems.’

Arya smiled at him.

‘What?’

‘I was just thinking… you have changed so much since we first met at Winterfell.’

‘And you have not?’

‘Of course! But I don’t just mean growing up… just… I remember you then, like… a diamond straight out of the mine. Now you are a proper prince. King, I mean.’

Gendry’s face flushed even as he scowled a little. ‘I’m not a proper anything. There are times…’ he lowered his voice so only Arya could hear, ‘…that I don’t feel like I even left the forge. Why should anyone follow me? Uncle Stannis is correct.’

She reached over and grabbed his hand where it rested on Ice’s hilt. ‘My father would not trust this sword to anyone unworthy. He was so…’

Gendry placed his free hand on hers as she paused to choke back a sob. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Arya.’

‘ _You_ didn’t. Tywin Lannister did when he killed my father.’ Her face hardened. ‘I will kill him with my bare hands.’

In that moment, Gendry knew that she was entirely sincere, entirely capable, and hiding far more grief and pain than he knew. He shivered as though a ghost had walked through him, and was suddenly a-feared for Tywin Lannister. Whatever Syrio had been teaching her, it was not excessive mercy.

 

*

 

The journey to Summerhall was uneventful and so dull that Gendry began to fear that his men would start looking for excitement. He organised training whenever they paused, hoping that beating each other under instruction would prevent them beating small-folk for fun.

Summerhall made him feel like the bottom of his stomach had fallen out. He had heard many a tale about the Tragedy that took out so many of the previous royal dynasty, had pictured it in his mind, but none of it quite lived up to whoa he now saw.

The once-great castle lay in ruins, and those ruins had been overtaken almost wholly by nature. The forty years since the Tragedy had allowed plants of all sorts to grow between the fallen stones; the expanse of floor that had once been the Great Hall was almost more green than stone; none of the high walls remained as those not completely felled during the fire had been knocked down by weather and the ravages of time.

Mostly, he felt the air itself was infused with melancholy, the quiet grief of so many deaths. Whatever had Rhaegar Targaryen found so appealing about this place of doom?

Most of the men would not go near the ruins themselves and made camp in the lightly wooded area to the south of it. Gendry himself kept his distance after a quick scout around.

Arya, on the other hand, marched straight into the ruined castle without hesitation or fear. She climbed up onto one of the pieces of wall still remaining, and stared out into the distance for sometime.

Gendry watched Arya and felt a surge of impressed pride. She was almost impossible to spook or intimidate despite her youth. He forgot sometimes that she was still full young, still not much more than a girl. She had been away so long that he had not seen her transition as it happened. She’d made reference previously about her first flowering - mostly to disarm the men around her, who found the mechanics of the thing so mysterious and disgusting - and how funny it had been to have it happen in the middle of nowhere with nobody but Syrio to advise her.

‘Your Grace!’

Gendry’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of one of the younger soldiers. Young Wen stood, apparently too intimidated by the royal personage before him that he lost his tongue.

‘Speak up, Wen,’ Gendry said kindly. ‘News from Lord Dayne?’

‘No, Your Grace. Just that Ser Loras is about to ride out and wanted to speak to you before he left.’

‘Right then. Lead the way.’

Gendry tore his gaze away from Arya in the ruins - she had now clambered onto a narrow wall and was walking along it as easily as if it were a promenade - and went to Loras.

The Knight of the Flowers looked more like a beggar than a shining beacon of chivalry. ‘I’m off to Highgarden to make sure we’ll still get a safe reception. No knowing what’s going on in truth. I’ll either meet you at Nightsong or send word there. Bryce is a good fellow, you’ll be safe there.’

‘If we get that far.’

Loras clapped a hand to Gendry’s shoulder. ‘The folks in these parts hold no love for Tywin Lannister or Stannis.’

‘That doesn’t mean they like _me_.’

‘You’re Robert’s boy - in the best sense - and Renly spoke for you. You Haw more support than you think. Patience, lad.’

Gendry rolled his eyes at being referred to as a “lad” but in truth it felt a more comfortable label than “King”. They embraced briefly and Gendry saw Loras off before returning to the ruins.

Arya was nowhere to be seen. Panic rose in his chest. Had she fallen? Had she been taken by some as yet unseen force of harm? He unsheathed Ice and with only a momentary hesitation, re-entered the eerie once-castle.

After some minutes of hasty searching, he found her leaning against a gargantuan stone that bore a carving of the three-headed dragon. She was talking to a young man, blond of hair and with a longsword strapped to his back.

‘Gendry!’ she waved him over with a smile. ‘Look who I found!’

‘Your Grace.’ The boy - Gendry felt this fellow was surely a boy - bowed to him deeply, but he seemed to bear a wry little smile upon his life. ‘It is an honour.’

‘Lord Edric Dayne, I presume?’

‘Indeed. I have been waiting for you here.’

‘Odd place for a meeting.’

‘Only if you fear the ghosts of the past. Do you, Your Grace?’

Gendry rather wanted to punch the cocky young sod, but could not help admire him at the same time. ‘I’ve yet to meet any ghosts, Lord Dayne.’

‘Oh gods, call me Ned!’

‘As you wish.’

Ned flushed red then. ‘I apologise, Your Grace. I am… I fear my niceties are lacking somewhat.’

Arya snorted ungracefully and left no doubt about her opinion of niceties. Gendry smiled then, for he was of a mind with them.

‘Ned, you are welcome here,’ he said. ‘We should discuss-’

‘Not much to discuss, Your Grace. My sword is yours.’

‘The Daynes and Baratheons have never been great allies.’

‘No, that is certainly true. May I speak frankly?’

‘I wish you to do so at all times.’

‘You are not Tywin Lannister.’

‘Not last time I checked,’ Arya cut in.

‘That is not a ringing endorsement,’ Gendry noted. ‘I would hope… can I be sure of your loyalty?’

‘If not, I would be unwise to say so. I am a Dayne of Starfall and our word is ever our bond. I squired for Beric Dondarrion and he speaks well of you, Your Grace. You are, I am told, a friend to the small-folk and would see Westeros peaceful and prosperous. Is that the truth of it?’ Ned shook his long blond hair out of his eyes, which Gendry noted were an unusual shade of purple.

‘If not, would I be wise to say so?’

‘Touche, Your Grace. Anyway, the Daynes may not always have been great friends with the Baratheons, but we have the greatest respect for the Starks of the North.’ Ned grinned at Arya. ‘To hear Aunt Allyria tell it, some of us have had great love for Starks.’

Gendry rolled his eyes at this dashing young blade but without malice. He exuded a goodness that the young king had rarely encountered, and wondered if this was what the Sword of the Morning had been like, before the Tower of Joy.

‘Then you are welcome to our company,’ he told Ned. ‘We are fewer in number than I would like but my uncle Renly rides ahead of us, making the case for us.’

‘He does a fine job,’ Ned said. ‘Lord Beric has gone to treat with the Brotherhood without Banners on your behalf.’

‘I am grateful, but I don’t think he’ll be in luck. They do not believe in kings.’

‘And yet you are of the people,’ Arya said. ‘If any king could bring them to his side, it’s you, stupid.’

Ned raised an eyebrow to hear her speak to the king so.

‘Come Ned,’ said Gendry. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

They began to make their way out of Summerhall, but Arya did not follow.

‘I’ll follow shortly.’

 

*

 

Arya remained amongst the ruins for some time. She could not say what she found so fascinating or compelling, but she had felt it almost from the moment she set eyes on the broken palace.

She had explored thoroughly and now settled herself down in a secluded corner. The red and black tiles of the former room spoke to the Targaryens who had once called this home - of a sort.

Syrio had taught her many forms of quietude and many times she had found herself outside herself, somewhere else, somewhere new and unknown. Once she had even fancied herself inside Nymeria but had dismissed that as nothing more than longing for her wolf.

Now she sat and with closed eyes, sought her peace.

When she opened her eyes, she startled: she was not alone!

‘Hello Arya of House Stark.’

The young man with long silvery hair and indigo eyes carried with him a small harp and a thousand years of sadness on his shoulders. How she knew that, she did not know. He was dressed simply in a tunic of black and red.

‘You’re Rhaegar Targaryen,’ she guessed.

He nodded. ‘Aye, my lady.’

‘You’re dead!’

‘For many years now, my lady.’

‘How are you here?’

‘I wonder at ever having left.’

‘Gendry’s father killed you at the Trident.’

‘Yes, he did.’ Rhaegar blinked twice. ‘I cannot say I did not deserve it.’

‘My aunt loved you.’

‘Yes, she did. More than I was able to love her in return, though I did in my way. I was not made for… contentment.’

‘Why are you here with me now?’

‘Because you are of the First Men and have the magic of the North in you, Lady Arya. Your aunt was much the same. Gods, you look like her.’

‘Lyanna was very beautiful.’ Arya felt her face redden.

‘Yes, she was. I am… You must know that the Long Night is coming once more. My- Jon at the Wall will need more help than he has… The wars of men have nothing on what is to come. Know that, Arya. It is _nothing_ to what is coming.’

‘What is coming?’

‘Why do you think I speak to you? _Winter_ is coming.’ His sad little smile and his pained purple eyes broke Arya’s heart.

She startled at a noise somewhere nearby, and was alone once more.


	19. Highgarden, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... sorry this has taken awhile. Work and life and other fics and fandoms have gotten in the way, and this is pretty short. But I hope it's enjoyable!

Arya did not tell a single solitary soul what she saw at Summerhall, at least not at first. She wanted to tell Gendry, but remembered all too well how easily his father became angry and lachrymose at any mention of Lyanna Stark or Rhaegar Targaryen. Gendry would surely not appreciate any further reference, certainly not to hear that the _dead_ prince had spoken to _her_.

That the dead spoke to her was less surprising to her than it might be to her southron friends. She was of the North and the First Men and they knew magic wasn’t really dead or gone from the world. Letters from Bran at home in Winterfell were full of news of Rickon the Wild, but also hinted at some deeper oddness, of being at one with the wolves.

The subject of Rhaegar’s speech, cryptic though it was, made her certain she must speak. There was too much at stake for her to be squeamish.

Gendry’s force was still small - much too small for a king who needed to take back seven kingdoms - but their numbers were boosted that same day with the arrival of three score men from House Swann and their lord, who had decided to throw his hat in the ring with Gendry without needing to be asked. It was a reassuring step in the right direction, but also spoke to how much more needed to be done.

It also meant that there were strangers around, and Arya would rather not speak of her Summerhall experience in front of them. Asking Gendry for a moment in private, however, earned her catcalls, hoots and laughter.

Her face was burning by the time they reached a quiet place near the ruins. It was nothing compared to his, though. He would not look her in the eye and he had gone so red that she worried he might pass out.

‘Please don’t laugh at me,’ she said. ‘And don’t say anything until I’m finished.’

‘What is it?’

Arya told him all that had happened in the ruins. To his credit and her relief, he did not interrupt although he certainly looked alarmed at hearing her tale.

‘I’m not making it up,’ she finished, already on the defensive. At her side, Nymeria growled softly at her discontent.

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t think you were. I just don’t know what it means.’

‘Nor do I…’

‘What?’

‘Bran wrote to me… he said… something about ravens and wolves and Others.’

‘Others?’

‘Yes. I know it’s stupid because they don’t exist anymore, if they even ever did but… _Rhaegar Targaryen_ spoke to me. That can’t be meaningless!’

Gendry, to his credit, barely startled at her blunt manner. ‘What was he like?’

‘Beautiful,’ she replied without thinking. ‘His eyes were so purple and I couldn’t help but stare at them, and not just because he was a ghost. I could well believe my aunt loved him.’

Gendry’s hands clenched into fists at hearing her speak so.

‘I’m sorry,’ she added hastily. ‘I know the Targaryens and Baratheons are not friends-’

‘That wasn’t my fight,’ he said, relaxing his hands, although they tensed again immediately. ‘I don’t know why I’m angry… I’m _not_ angry… just… I don’t even know. I just want this all to be over and the idea of seeing ghosts doesn’t help.’

‘I didn’t ask for it!’

‘I know you didn’t. What are we supposed to do with this information? I don’t have anyone I can spare to send North. Unless I go myself.’

Arya yawned. ‘The sooner we get to Highgarden, the better. Or meet with Robb. Or just put an end to this! I’ll go to King’s Landing on my own! I can sneak in and put a dagger through Tywin Lannister’s neck!’

‘Calm down,’ he said, a hand on her shoulder for comfort. He did not understand why it made him angry either, except perhaps that it was _this place_ with its ghosts and pain and death and ruin. ‘We leave in the morning.’

‘Good. I don’t like sitting around.’

‘No? I would never have guessed.’ His wry little smile at her expense drew one upon her own mouth.

‘Stupid bull.’

‘Bull? I’m a stag.’

‘You look more like a bull to me.’

‘Well, you don’t look like a wolf to me.’

‘Then what?’

‘A scrawny brat running around castle cellars.’

‘That was years ago!’

He stopped. She was right. It had been _years_ and she was much changed. They all were. She was young, to be truthful, but not a child either. He took a moment to actually look at her: she was sinewy rather than scrawny; she was simply dressed but not quite scruffy; she was nowhere near as tall as him, but she was tall enough to likely be of a height with her siblings. Her face was long and had lost the roundness of childhood that he remembered from before her flight to Essos.

Gendry had not really looked at Arya since she’d returned and now he did, it was proving a challenge to look away. It didn’t help that Arya was Arya, so met his gaze with a challenge of her own.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘You’re not scrawny any longer…’

‘Ha!’

‘But you’re certainly a brat.’

She smacked him in the belly and he doubled over from shock rather than pain.

‘Serves you right!’ she said. ‘Now, can I go and kill Tywin Lannister now?’

‘Patience, Lady Arya.’

‘Don’t “Lady” me, _Your Grace_.’

Gendry was stopped from replying further by the appearance of Ned Dayne, who regarded them with a bright, if ever-so-slightly sly smile.

‘Your Grace, I apologise for the interruption.’

‘You’re not interrupting, Dayne. What’s occurring?’

‘We’re ready to depart. You need only say the word.’

‘Thank you. Come on, brat.’

‘As you wish, _Your Grace._ _’_

_*_

The journey to Highgarden was easy enough, but atop his horse with little to distract him, Gendry fell to contemplation.

Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna Stark. His own father. What a mess that had been. How complicated did love make life? All would have been simpler without it, or at least, with a little less.

He could not forget, nor truly forgive, how morose his father had still become when thinking of Lyanna Stark, even a generation later. Gendry was under no special illusion that Robert’s love had been all-encompassing or true, but the pain that lingered had been.

Yet, he could not despise or hate Prince Rhaegar for anything more than arrogance and selfishness, nor Lyanna for more than impulsiveness. Would their world have burned even if they had been honourable and ignored their feelings?

Gendry rather thought it would.

If not for Lyanna Stark, he would still be a blacksmith, in all probability. Perhaps he would not even exist. Either way, he wouldn’t be a bastard prince-in-exile fighting his way up the country, begging for assistance from the Lords on the way.

Highgarden was everything beautiful, and its inhabitants were hardly less so. Gendry thought of lost Margaery and his infant brother and could hardly hold back a tear as his caravan passed through the fine golden gates of the great house.

Loras was waiting to greet them with his grandmother, the redoubtable and quietly terrifying Queen of Thorns. His father hovered a little in the background, a much reduced version of the Mace that Gendry remembered from King’s Landing.

‘Your Grace. You are welcome here,’ Olenna told him, bowing her head just enough to be polite. ‘Come along. And you have Arya Stark with you. We had wondered where she’d got to.’

Arya scowled and Gendry shot her a glare in return. It would not do to annoy a family whose loyalties were by no means secured. Nymeria was mercifully quiet: an angry direwolf could hardly help proceedings.

‘We thank you most kindly, my lady,’ he said, with a more definite bow of greeting. ‘It is very good to see you all again. I hope… I hope you are well.’

‘As well as we can with the heaviness of grief upon our bosoms.’

‘Grandmother, they are very tired,’ Loras cut in. ‘Allow me to get everyone settled in.’

‘Very well, Loras. You _are_ welcome, Gendry. We’ll have a good dinner this evening. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten well these past weeks.’

‘We have not, my lady. Anything you might offer will be gratefully received.

 

*

 

The Tyrells knew how to host a feast. There was perhaps a dearth of meat compared to a Red Keep banquet but even Gendry’s men could not be disappointed by the cornucopia and the Arbour wine presented to them in Highgarden’s vaulted banqueting hall.

Gendry had been given the best of the guest chambers and Lady Olenna had found a Baratheon-sigiled bedspread to complement the variety of Tyrell roses throughout.

He slept a little that afternoon, grateful for four walls and a soft bed. Still, his dreams were full of tortures that he mercifully forgot upon waking.

Everything was still so uncertain. If he was able to take command of the Tyrell forces, there was the possibility of victory. If he did not, he was the shortest lived king since… perhaps no one had been such a failure.

Why was he even bothering? He did not want to be prince, let alone king. He had been quite content in his forge, not knowing that he was Robert Baratheon’s son. He had been happy-

No, he had not been _happy_ exactly, and if Ned Stark had taught him anything - he paused a moment to choke back a sob in grieved remembrance of that fine lord - it was that he had a duty. He did not want to be king, but he did not want his father’s seven kingdoms to fall to the corruption and greed of Tywin Lannister and his mouthpiece, Uncle Stannis.

The false king had already imposed three new taxes on the small folk. He had yet to make any demands of the nobility except loyalty, but it was only a matter of time. Once he felt secure, he would move. In the meantime, the people began to suffer.

A knock on the door startled him out of his grim thoughts not long before sundown.

‘Gendry?’ It was Arya.

‘Come in.’

She slipped into the room as quiet as a soft breeze, and he turned to glance at her.

‘Arya, you look-’

‘Don’t.’ She tugged at the dress. It was beyond a doubt the finest thing he’d ever seen her wear: a Reach style gown in a vibrant, gleaming silver. It was close-cut and low-cut, showing off parts of the girl which had likely never seen the light of day except for the purposes of bathing.

‘You look _very well_ ,’ he said, perfectly aware that he trod a fine line between living and dead.

‘It was Margaery’s.’

He was not surprised. ‘Lady Olenna honours you.’

Her snort was answer enough to that theory. ‘She just wants to keep in with whoever she thinks will take the throne.’

‘Then if she’s being nice to you, I should have cause for hope.’

Hope was not exactly what he was currently feeling. Distraction, perhaps. ‘What brings you here, Arya?’

She reddened a little, as it had apparently only just occurred to her that she was in his bedchamber. Still, she was _Arya_ Stark rather than Sansa, so got over the moment quickly.

‘I knew you would be honest about this stupid dress. I don’t want… I don’t want to be laughed at.’

Gendry considered this. She had never, ever been able to stand being laughed at. Though she could tease and be teased in good humour better than most, Arya Stark would not be mocked.

He thought then of Sansa, and once more thanked any gods, old or new, that Ned Stark had managed to send her back to Winterfell before the worst befell him. He chuckled very slightly to himself that Sansa had been sent home without an engagement, and how put out she had been.

‘You’re laughing at me!’

‘I’m not! I promise I’m not. I was thinking about… days long past. _Lady_ Arya, nobody will laugh at you this evening, I swear it.’

Her scowl did not dim the light in her eyes. ‘They’d better not.’

Gendry took her hand then and kissed it lightly, like a proper prince was supposed to act with a proper lady. ‘You are far too beautiful to be laughed at.’

To his horror, her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘I don’t want to be beautiful.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then some horrid old man or idiotic boy will take a fancy to marrying me, and I don’t want to marry anyone!’

In this at least, Arya was unchanged, and he found it a great relief to be on such familiar ground.

‘You don’t have to marry anyone.’

‘Robb will expect me to. He’ll find someone advantageous.’

‘Well, I’m the King, and you won’t have to marry anyone unless you want to. That better?’

‘A bit. I just… I see how the pretty girls are leered at. I don’t want to be leered at, I want to be…’

‘Feared?’

‘Respected.’

‘Ah, well you’ve no worries on that score. Everyone is suitably terrified and respectful.’ Gendry flashed her a smile and she let the tension ease from her shoulders.

‘You should get yourself washed up,’ she said. ‘You still stink of the road. Don’t you wash?’

Gendry spun her around and pushed her back to the door. ‘I’ll see you at the feast, Arya.’

At the doorway, she sighed. ‘Thank you, Gendry.’

‘It was nothing.’

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first ASOIAF fic but not my first fanfic ever. It's currently unbetaed so mistakes are mine.
> 
> I have no idea how often I'll be able to post...
> 
> It will be Arya/Gendry eventually if ships are your thing, along with a few other obvious and not-so-obvious ships.


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